Darkrooms and Safe Light
by sleepyvalentina
Summary: A vampire who has been dead for decades meets a young woman who hasn't yet begun to live. They could bring each other to life...if he doesn't kill her first. A FGB piece for Katinki.
1. Prologue

I don't own_ Twilight._

This is a Fandom Gives Back pieces commissioned by Katinki. It will be a full-length piece, containing explicit sex, violence, and just about everything else you can think of. Reader discretion is advised.

* * *

Darkrooms and Safe Light

Prologue

* * *

She hopes he's planning to fuck her.

At the bar an hour earlier, he said she was beautiful, that he wanted to photograph her. She assumed it was a line—and a tired one, at that—designed to get her back to his apartment and out of her clothes. At the time, his ruse made her laugh. He didn't need to flatter her to get her to go home with him; she'd wanted to do that since the moment she saw him.

She's been at his place for twenty minutes, posing as the shutter of his relic of a manual camera snaps away. He has yet to touch her, and she begins to wonder if she was wrong, if he was telling the truth when he said he wanted only to take her picture.

"Are you getting what you want?" she asks.

"Yes." He looks up from behind his camera and smiles. "Unless you'd like to give me more."

She unbuttons her blouse, exposing her bra. "Like this?"

He doesn't react, so she takes it a bit further, hiking up her skirt and sliding a hand inside her panties.

"Or this?"

"Yes," he says. "Just like that. I want to take your picture as you come."

As quickly as her humanity permits, she discards the rest of her clothing. Her hands squeeze her breasts and tweak her nipples, before one trails down her torso to her dripping sex. After a few frenzied strokes, she's on the verge of orgasm, wondering why her prior experiences pale in comparison to what she is feeling now, when he hasn't even touched her, and she doesn't know who he is.

"What's your name?"

He answers from behind his camera. "Edward."

"Edward..." His name becomes a moan as her pleasure overwhelms her.

With unnatural speed, he is upon her, cradling her sweaty body in his arms for less than a second before lifting her hair from her neck and piercing her flesh with his teeth.

It is for this and this alone that he desires her. He takes his pleasure as he takes her life. Her blood gushes into him, rushing through his body and hardening his cock, bringing him ecstasy and sustenance in a single act.

They meet death together, and though his is little, hers is real.

* * *

Thanks for reading. This is going to be a quite a ride.


	2. Subject

**Chapter One**

**Subject**

* * *

Bella could handle her job if not for her uniform, and the irony of this isn't lost on her. Waitresses don't earn decent money unless they are employed in high-class establishments or show a bit of skin. Since her inexperience precludes her from the former, circumstances force her to endure the latter. It's the uniform that enables her to earn enough to live.

This is what Bella tells herself as she attaches the standard-issue black stockings to her garter belt—that her job is simply something she does. She refuses to allow it to define her. It does, however, keep a roof over her head and enable her to take a single college course each semester. Though it will take years for her to complete a degree, she doesn't doubt that she will—it's a promise she makes to herself each and every time she dresses for work. When she checks her appearance one last time before stepping out onto the casino floor, she doesn't recognize the woman in the mirror. With blood-red lipstick and heavy eye make-up, her glossy brown hair piled atop her head and the majority of her bosom exposed, she looks older than she is and harder than she ever wants to become. The uniform is supposed to make her look like a can-can dancer, but she thinks she looks more like a whore. It's not a feeling she relishes, so once she is dressed, she likes to pretend she's someone else.

The casino at which Bella works projects an image of wealth and glamor, but as she walks between the tables in her short dress with her tray upon her shoulder, she sees it for what it is—desperation. She wants to pity her patrons but knows she shouldn't, reminding herself that although despondency is often unavoidable, hypocrisy is a choice. Instead, she smiles, flirts and pretends she doesn't mind when strange men try to touch her. She's yet to find a man at gaming table she doesn't consider pathetic, until she sees _him._

Tall and sinewy, his hair is fire, and his eyes are black. She thinks she imagines him, that beauty like his exists only in airbrushed magazine photos and art galleries, but not in reality and certainly not in Atlantic City. She doesn't want to let him out of her sight, so as she waits for the bartender to complete her order, she cranes her neck in order to retain her unobstructed view. Her staring doesn't go unnoticed.

"Gorgeous, isn't he?"

Without looking, Bella knows who is beside her. Her supervisor, Angela, always smells like jasmine and vanilla. It's a welcome contrast to the usual scents of the casino—sweat, smoke, alcohol and avarice—and speaks volumes about Angela. Ten years wearing a bustier and a barely-there skirt haven't hardened her. She's sweet, and just as optimistic as she had been her first day working the casino floor. Bella suspects this optimism is of the pharmaceutically enhanced variety.

"Do you know him?" Bella asks, trying to appear nonchalant.

"No better than I know any of the regulars. His name's Edward, he's a photographer, and a good tipper."

Angela studies Bella as she speaks, and finds the look on her friend's face a bit disconcerting. She looks after Bella—on and off the casino floor—because if she doesn't, no one else will. In the six months Angela has known Bella, she's begun to regard her with the genuine affection Angela imagines she'd feel toward a younger sister if she had one. This is why despite her intense dislike of gossip, Angela feels compelled to share the only other piece of information she knows about the object of Bella's admiration.

"He comes alone, but he never leaves that way. From what I can tell, he has a thing for models and dancers."

"Oh."

"Don't be too disappointed; you've worked here long enough to know that any regular has far more vices than gambling."

Bella's order of drinks is up, and as she loads her tray, she keeps her eyes downcast and her thoughts to herself. If she's feeling any disappointment at all, it's not because of his apparent promiscuity, but because she doubts she's his type. Though Bella has never gone anywhere with a man, were she given the opportunity, she'd go anywhere with him. This realization both thrills and confuses her, dampening the crotch of the sad excuse for panties she is required to wear with her uniform. As Bella delivers yet another round of watered-down well drinks, she tries to figure out why she is so drawn to him, as well as why her chest aches when he leaves the black jack table (and presumably the casino) with a strawberry blonde. With great effort, she pushes the man with fiery hair and onyx eyes from her mind, not wanting to add yet another regret to what has already been a lifetime of "if onlys".

**-o-  
**

Vampires, much like humans, tend to be stuck in their ways. Edward is no exception. Though photography has come a long way since Edward first picked up a camera, his methodology remains as unchanged as his physical features. He uses black-and-white film exclusively and processes it in his personal darkroom, a private sanctuary tucked away in the attic of a home he owns but rarely visits. Believing that modern cameras have stripped the act of taking a picture of its inherent eroticism, he uses a manual camera, adjusting its lens with graceful caresses as if it were his penis and this touch will lead him to climax.

Usually, it does.

During the time of Edward's youth, pornography was not only hard to obtain, but Edward was certain his father would tan his hide if he brought such trash into the house. So Edward would sneak out at night, climbing trees and hiding in bushes, clandestinely peering through the bedroom windows of his neighbors, hoping to find them in flagrante delicto. He lucked out more often than not—during the day, he took note of which couples around town seemed to have the happiest marriages, and visited those homes more than others. At seventeen, he paid a whore to divest him of his virginity, and though he found participating in sexual relations pleasurable, it paled in comparison to the thrill he got from watching others. Consequent orgasms from his own hand were far more intense than the one he experienced in the squishy heat of a rented vagina.

Though vampires frequently refer to their metamorphoses from mortals to immortals as being 'changed', in actuality, they change very little. Once infected with enough venom, the physical composition of their bodies loses its fragility, but personality traits remain the same, often increasing in intensity. Thus, it isn't at all unlikely that an unusually perceptive young man and occasional peeping tom bitten by a vampire but not drained of blood, would enter immortality as a mind-reading voyeur.

When Edward woke to his second life, two things overwhelmed him—the burning in his throat and the loud cacophony of the thoughts of those around him. The thirst he quenched with blood, but try as he may, there was no silencing the inner monologues of humanity. Torturous and haunting, what he heard in the minds of others rocked him to the core, serving only to reinforce a belief he was loathe to embrace during his human life—that to one nuanced degree or another, there is evil in everyone.

Outside of his survival and occasional gratification, Edward has no use for others. It's just as well. His food choice makes staying in one place for too long problematic, or rather it did, until he discovered Atlantic City. Hoping to strike it rich, people arrive by the thousands on buses and trains each hour. Those who are ashamed of gambling addictions don't tell their friends and families about their little day trips, so when they go missing, Atlantic City is the last place their survivors think to look for them. Because of this, casinos are Edward's game reserve, and it's always open season. He feeds freely, disposing of the bodies in the neighboring Pine Barrens. Sustenance has never been easier.

He is sitting at a poker table, listening to the thoughts of those around him when the smell overpowers him. Intoxicating and delicious, it's like no blood he's ever encountered. He's never wanted anything as much as he wants to taste it. Despite the fact he has a royal flush, he folds and leaves the table to follow the scent. It leads him to the far corner of a bar, where a petite, young waitress is loading her tray with cocktails.

Her features are as exquisite as her scent. Her shiny dark hair is piled onto her head in a style not all that dissimilar from what was in vogue when Edward was human. There's a faint blush upon the pale skin exposed by her decolletage, and her full lips are painted deep red. Edward feels a stirring in the pit of his ball sack and desires her intensely, in a way he's desired no one else. He wants to take her picture as she comes, yes, but he also wants to touch her, to feel her tremble in his arms as his own orgasm crashes upon him—not the kind of ecstasy he would experience as he takes her life, but the kind he would experience as he takes _her._

He studies her from a distance, trying to read her thoughts so he'll know what to say to her that will compel her to leave with him, but gets nothing. She looks up from her task and smiles, and he tries again, hoping she's like the others—that she is looking at his bespoke suit and thinking she'll have a better chance hitting the jackpot in his wallet than the one in the casino, something, anything, to use as justification for what he wants to do to her, so he can make himself believe she deserves it.

Again, nothing.

Without her thoughts to guide him, Edward is lost. He considers kidnapping her, but the casino's surveillance cameras render that option impractical. Besides, he doesn't want to take her by force; he wants her to want to come home with him and show him her body. Edward needs to woo her, but doesn't have any idea how. For the first time in his second life, he's nervous.

And just like that, this scrap of a girl dressed like a whore from a bygone era does something to him he didn't think possible—she makes him feel human again.


	3. Tintype

**Chapter Two**

**Tintype**

* * *

There's something about him that makes her clit twitch, even though he has yet to touch her. Normally, she'd never permit a man to take her picture—clothed, or otherwise. Descriptions and detective drawings are subjective, but a photograph is indisputable evidence. He smiles as he holds up his camera, and he's gorgeous, so she changes her mind. She tells herself she'll take the camera with her when she leaves, after she helps herself to the ten grand she watched him win earlier that evening.

"Anything in particular you'd like to capture?" she asks, wiggling out of her tube dress. Naked except for a pair of high heels, she sinks to the floor and crawls to him, placing her purse at his side before kneeling at his feet. "How about my lips around your cock?"

He takes a step back; he doesn't like it when his food tries to touch him.

"I want to see you finger your cunt."

She leans back and spreads her knees. With her index and middle finger, she opens herself to his camera lens, relishing the knowledge that she is the male gaze personified. They are small-minded, predictable creatures—even the smart ones. It's good for her that they are, because she counts on this. This one, though is different. She's enjoying herself, and that never happens. It's the most exciting foreplay she's had in years, and considering he's fully clothed and hasn't laid a finger on her, that says a lot. When placed in the context of her sexual experience, it says volumes.

She pushes her fingers inside herself and fakes a moan, biting her lip while flipping her hair over her shoulder. As easy as it would be for her to lose herself with this man, she doesn't allow herself to do so. He's nothing more than a means to an end—no different from the rest of them. Keeping her eye on her handbag—and by extension, her gun—she figures she'll fuck this one first, then shoot him when he's in a post-coital coma. It won't be difficult—the pretty ones are always so stupid.

Though Edward finds her assumptions about him mildly amusing, his patience is growing thin. She's faking her pleasure while stealing furtive glances at her handbag, as if he doesn't know she's keeping tabs on her weapon. She is becoming increasingly annoying, and since it's obvious she isn't even going to give him a real climax to photograph, he sees no point in letting her live another second.

So he doesn't.

**-o-**

Bella doesn't know what to think. She replays her exchange with Edward in her mind as she changes out of her uniform but has no idea what to make of it, or more specifically, what to make of him.

He was disoriented when he appeared before her, as if he was lost, but rather than ask for assistance, he just stared at her. So Bella did what she is paid to do—she asked Edward if he would like a drink. His hand flew to his face, covering his mouth and nose, and before she could ask him what was wrong, he vanished. Though it wasn't the strangest thing she'd ever witnessed while working, it definitely ranked among the top five.

As exhausted as she is after twelve hours on her feet in four-inch heels, she isn't ready to drive home. The late-night air is cool, and the salty scent of the ocean breeze has always soothed her. She walks through the hotel, in the opposite direction of where her car is parked, heading to the boardwalk. Though she wants to take off her shoes and the feel the sand between her toes, she knows better than to go onto the beach by herself after dark. Once outside, she faces the water and closes her eyes. She relishes the dampness of the night air against her skin, happy in her solitude. That is, until someone interrupts her.

"I was rude to you at the bar earlier."

As male voices go, this one is lovely, but since she's off the clock and wants to be left alone, she doesn't look at him. "Don't worry about it. So many people are rude to me; I rarely notice anymore."

"It saddens me that I'm now among them. I hope that you'll permit me the opportunity to make it up to you."

"I'm not in the habit of permitting casino patrons to do_ anything_ to me."

"Smart girl."

She opens her eyes and sees Edward beside her. For a moment, she thinks she's hallucinating. Now it's her turn to stare, and because she doesn't know what to say, she blurts the first thing that comes to her mind.

"Your eyes are different than they were at the bar."

It's a fact of which Edward is well aware—since seeing Bella a few hours ago, he's fed. He wouldn't trust himself in her presence were his thirst not sated, and red irises are an unfortunate after-effect of drinking human blood.

"The lights from the casinos make everything appear different than it is," he lies. Even in his extremely limited experience with the opposite sex, he knows that she would probably consider his diet a deal-breaker.

"Isn't that the truth?" She laughs humorlessly. "I'm surprised you even recognized me out of uniform."

Until she mentions it, he doesn't notice anything about her has changed. He takes a moment to study her appearance—her hair is still piled atop her head in a Gibson pompadour, but her face is scrubbed clean of make-up. Her almost non-existent skirt and bustier are gone, having been replaced with a long dress that falls to ground but leaves her shoulder bare. She looks fragile and young, and for a moment, he thinks he has been transported back in time—that the past hundred or so years haven't happened, that he has blood coursing through his veins, and the world is still simple.

He feels as if he is on vacation with his parents, and he's looking at a girl he'd like to court, whose hand he'd like to hold (if she'd permit it) and whose cheek he'd like to kiss. That he's in the presence of a girl who would sigh and blush at his flattery while refusing his advances, all the while reserving her virtue for the man who gives her his name. Even more confusing, he finds himself wanting to be that man.

"Most people don't," she adds, uncomfortable with silence.

Silence makes Edward uncomfortable, too, though for entirely different reasons. He should be able to hear her thoughts, but he just...can't. Even more unsettling is the realization that he wants nothing more than to know what she is thinking. That he could ask her doesn't occur to him. Instead, he focuses on her face while trying to ignore the burning in his throat and the tightening in his testicles.

"Did you lose much?" she asks.

"I'm not sure what you're talking about."

"You look like you're in pain. Around here, that usually means one thing."

"Bad luck?"

"Well, yes. No one comes to a casino thinking he'll lose money, but more often than not, that's exactly what happens."

"I imagine you see it all the time, working in one."

"I've seen it my entire life," she says, turning toward the water. "I grew up here."

Her face is almost wistful as she stares at the beach, and it no longer matters that his gift doesn't work on her—what she wants is obvious.

"Come for a walk with me," he says.

She snorts.

"What?"

"The only thing more dangerous than being alone on the beach at night is being on the beach at night with a strange man."

His smile is brilliant. "You're wrong about me."

"Is this where you try to convince me you aren't strange?"

"No. I'm stranger than you can begin to imagine; I'm just not a man. Though I can't pretend I've always behaved admirably, I _try_ not to bite unless the person in question deserves it."

She laughs; if he's feeding her a line, it's the most creative she's heard yet.

"I'm Edward, by the way."

"Bella." She extends her hand for him to shake.

Edward has never touched a human he wasn't in the process of killing, and he isn't entirely sure how to go about doing so. He knows Bella is fragile, that he could break her hand if he squeezes it too hard. He feels like a schoolboy, and before he can think better of it, he finds himself behaving like one—or at least, how he behaved when he _was_ one. So in a gesture from another time, he bows his head and curls his hand around her fingertips, bringing her knuckles to his mouth. As he brushes his lips against her skin, he marvels at its heat and softness, wondering if he could capture them on film. He then realizes how cold he must feel to her. Panicked, he lets go of her fingers and drops his hand to his side.

He checks her face for signs of revulsion, but instead finds only a smile.

Encouraged, he decides to try his luck. "May I have permission to call on you?"

"Are you asking for my phone number?"

Her question confuses him at first, but then he understands—she must be worried about her reputation. He isn't sure why, but he cares enough to do this the right way.

"No, I'm asking to call _on_ you, but I could certainly call you, too, if you'd like. Ideally, I should ask your father–"

"He's dead."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Edward says with sincerity. "Perhaps you have a male guardian who looks after you; I could ask him–"

"You were right; you _are_ strange."

After a moment, realization dawns on her face, and she begins to laugh. Edward doesn't pretend to understand humans and can't begin to imagine what she finds so entertaining, but he laughs with her anyway, knowing it's more than likely what she expects him to do.

"Hands down, you win," she says between giggles. "This has got to be the most amusing way anyone has ever asked me if I had a boyfriend."

Edward isn't sure how she got that from his wanting to ask her father permission to court her, but he doesn't care, because it suits his purpose.

"Do you?" he asks.

"No. Therefore, I feel compelled to reward your creativity. My shift tomorrow ends at midnight. If you're so inclined, you may call on me then. I'll be waiting for you at the all-you-can-eat buffet."

Edward smiles. As far as he's concerned, the entire casino is an all-you-can-eat buffet, but he doesn't tell her that.

"So you'd like me to take you to dinner."

"Maybe."

"I thought you weren't in the habit of permitting casino patrons to do _anything_ with you."

"I'm making an exception for you because you made me laugh. See you tomorrow night."

As she runs across the boardwalk to the casino, she hopes he can't tell she's lying.

She would make an exception for him regardless.


	4. Shooting Distance

**_Chapter Three_**

**_Shooting Distance_**

* * *

The Jersey Shore of Bella's youth no longer exists, and most people consider this progress. Real estate investors and journalists frequently refer to the changes to the island on which she grew up as "gentrification." Bella isn't sure how she'd describe the way things have changed, only that she'd use words which she'd never utter in polite conversation. She cares nothing for what development has allegedly done to better her hometown; all she knows is that because of it, she can no longer afford to live there.

Bella has been on her own since she was nineteen years old, when her grandmother lost a hard battle with cancer. Because Bella had lived with her grandmother since she was eight and took care of her during her illness, upon her passing, Bella inherited the tiny beach-block bungalow in which she'd spent the majority of her life. In recent years, the value of shore properties increased exponentially. Unfortunately for Bella, so have property taxes and other costs associated with owning a home by the sea. Though there's nothing at all luxurious about the modest house in which Bella grew up, its proximity to the beach makes it desirable to renters.

As repugnant as she finds thought of strangers in her grandmother's house, she hates the idea of losing it more. Because of this, Bella only lives there seven months of the year—returning after the season is over and the shoobies have gone back to their mcmansions. The fact that they take with them their pocketbooks is of little consequence to her; as far as she's concerned, their money (as well as the sense of entitlement that comes with it) is the root of the problem. During the summer, Bella lives in a trailer off-shore. The revenue from renting her house makes it so she doesn't have to sell it, and though she can't articulate why, there is nothing more important to her than preserving that part of her family's legacy. Though she feels lonely at times, she's grateful for her roommate, Ekaterina.

Bella doesn't understand why, but Ekaterina prefers to be called Kate. Like the people to whom Bella rents her house, Kate is only in New Jersey during the summer, but that is where the similarity ends. The former spend their days sunbathing and their nights drinking, while Kate slaves at a job almost as demoralizing as Bella's. A Russian university student who comes each year via a special work visa, Kate returns to school in September with cash in pocket and various clothes and gadgets that cost far more in her corner of the world than they do in the States. Though Bella and Kate have almost nothing in common, they get along well and have as much fun two people can have while living in a trailer and working thankless jobs.

On the rare instances when Bella is feeling self-indulgent enough to fantasize, being able to afford to live in her childhood home year-round is always at the forefront of her dreams, though not for the reasons one would think. She isn't attached to the house itself, as much as she's attached to what it stands for. When she lived there with her grandmother, life was hard but still simple. Though it wasn't always easy for Bella to do the right thing, Bella never had a problem figuring out what the right thing to do was.

This thought alone is usually enough to make her happy.

Tonight is different. Tonight when she closes her eyes, she doesn't see a young girl playing in the sand beside her grandmother's beach chair, nor does she pretend she can the way the early-morning sunlight pours into the east side of her house, waking her gently as it warms her skin. She isn't seeking the comfort of the familiar, nor does she crave the simplicity of the past.

Tonight she craves him.

So she doesn't indulge that half of her brain, the sensible half, the part that warns her, that knows all too well the extent to which men like him use women like her. Instead, she focuses on how he made her feel on the boardwalk earlier—how with only a quick brush of his lips against her knuckles, her pulse quickened and the muscles in her skin contracted, causing the fair hair dotting her arm to stand at attention. Though his touch was cold, he made her feel warm and alive. Every sensation was heightened—not only the feeling of his skin against hers, but the dampness of the salt air against her face and the soft brush of cotton against her legs as the wind whipped through her skirt.

Tonight when her head hits the pillow, she thinks of this. Then she stops thinking altogether, for once determined just to feel.

Her hand slips under the neckline of her camisole, exposing her chest to the still air of her bedroom. Imagining her hand belongs to him, she kneads and squeezes her breasts. But it isn't working—her fingers are far too warm and her skin is far too soft—so she licks the pads of her thumb and index finger before using them to pinch her nipple. She moves her other hand into her panties, and isn't at all surprised to discover she's drenched and engorged. She strokes herself, needing release with a desperation she's never before experienced. Her frenzied hand slides against her flesh, bringing her closer and closer, until she's finally there. She cries his name as she comes; even though he isn't with her, it feels as if he is.

Her body goes slack, and she closes her eyes. Her last coherent thought before she drifts off to sleep is that she wishes he were with her. It never occurs to her that he is.

**-o-**

Edward is no stranger to coming in his pants. He's been doing it for nearly a century, and though the ejaculate itself changed when he became a vampire, the mechanics of the experience remain the same. As far as Edward is concerned, a good night of peeping has always resulted in what some would call a walk of shame, with slight modification do to his guilty pleasure of choice. Instead of walking home in the previous day's attire, he does so in jizz-soaked trousers. The term amuses him, even if it does illustrate what he considers to be one of humanity's larger failings. Though he's read enough minds to know that for some it's all a big joke, for others it's an accurate description—for many persons, shame is a natural chaser to physical gratification.

It's hypocritical of Edward to judge them for this. After all, when blood still coursed through his veins, when his orgasms brought forth streams of hot semen, the ensuing shame he'd experience as he tucked his penis into his drawers and returned home seemed every bit as integral to the experience as any of the evening's other components: He watched. He hardened. He climaxed. He felt bad about it.

It was only after he entered immortality that he realized how ridiculous his guilt was. With a level of bitterness of which only a being who'd been dead far longer than he'd been alive would be capable, Edward decided life's greatest pleasures were wasted on the living.

Sex is no exception.

As Edward watches Bella's hand move between her legs, he wonders into which category she falls, if she is the kind of person who lets her sensuality bring her to dizzying heights when the moon is high only to hang her head in shame when the sun takes its place or if she realizes that guilt is even more useless than regret. For her sake (and selfish though it may be, his as well) he hopes it's the latter. He wants her to share her body with him, but would hate himself if doing so would bring her anything other than ecstasy.

He's fully aware that he's getting ahead of himself; there's a very good chance she won't want him. Even if by some miracle she does, there's an even better chance that he won't be able to resist the call of her blood. If in the process of making love to her he accidentally kills her, any post-coital guilt to which she may or may not be prone becomes completely irrelevant. So he pushes everything from his mind except the glorious sight before him. As far as he's concerned, there's only one thing that could make it better for him, and that would be for Bella to give him_more_. He wants more than anything for her to remove her clothing. Though her sheer white top and low-cut panties leave little to his imagination, it's still too much. He wants to see everything, to know everything. He wants to know if the lips she uses to speak differ in color from the ones she uses to come and what shape her breasts take without clothing or undergarments to confine them. He wants to know her, and he wants to be known to her.

Bella's hips come off the bed and her moans increase in volume, and though the sight of a woman pleasuring herself has become commonplace in Edward's world, somehow Bella is different. His cock hardens quickly and with such force, it separates the zipper from his pants. As much as he wants to, he dare not squeeze his penis as he looks at Bella. He is unwilling to even entertain the notion of cheapening her that way.

At least, this is what he chooses to believe. The truth is, Edward gets off on watching. Therefore, he'd much rather _watch_ her climax without the distraction of _experiencing_ his own. Were he to close his eyes for even a second, he could miss a flash of a nipple or a glimpse of the soft pink flesh between her thighs. Throbbing testicles and torn pants be damned! He will not touch himself outside Bella's window, not when her pleasure is so exquisite.

His resolution is an utter failure.

The sound of Bella calling his name at the moment of her orgasm affects him in such a way, he needs to touch himself, and with only a handful of pumps, he achieves his own release.

Though his pants aren't at all damp—the hole on the seam next to his fly provides him with more than adequate ventilation for any residual venom that may dribble from his spent penis—it may as well be daylight, and he may as well be human. As he walks home, for the second time in as many days, he realizes what he's done and finds himself overwhelmed with an emotion he hasn't felt for nearly a hundred years.

He is ashamed.


	5. Proof

**_Chapter Four_**

**_Proof_**

* * *

By the time Bella wakes up, Kate has already left for work. Bella is disappointed at first—she hasn't been interested in a guy since high school and would have liked to talk to Kate about Edward before she goes out with him. It then occurs to Bella that Kate would want to know where Edward is from, what he does besides gamble and (allegedly) take pictures, how old he is, and how long he's planning to be in Atlantic City—none of which are questions Bella can answer. Perhaps it's just well that Kate isn't home, even if it means Bella will be unable to get input from her on what she should wear to meet Edward.

Bella isn't typically one to fret over fashion, but even she acknowledges her plans for this evening provide a unique challenge when it comes to her attire. How is a girl supposed to dress to go out with an alleged womanizer who has already seen her in a get-up worthy of the Moonlite Bunny Ranch? If she sexes it up, Edward will likely think she's easy—and though there's something about him that makes her wish she was, in reality, nothing is further from the truth. If she dresses too modestly, he'll think she's playing games with him, that she wants him for his money and will only put out if he does first.

She pulls a few options from the closet she shares with Kate and tosses them onto her bed, knowing her dilemma isn't so much about what she wants to wear as who she wants to be. The answer isn't at all obvious—Bella had often struggled to define herself. After some thought she realizes that first and foremost, she is a caregiver. This is such a prominent part of her identity that she just doesn't know what to do with herself when she isn't looking after someone. This moment is one of those instances, and it affords her the luxury of introspection and mild frivolity. She is able to waste time thinking about herself and her outfit because she has no one else (and therefore nothing more pressing) to consider.

In the absence of meaningful responsibilities, she finds that does care about her appearance—quite a bit. She may detest flaunting her sex appeal for a paycheck, but because this is how she earns her living, she knows despite her inexperience with men that she _is_ sexy, even if she rarely feels that way. So to answer the question of what to wear, she chooses a knee-length cotton sundress that shows a little skin and makes her feel pretty. It's when she decides who she wants to be that she doesn't recognize her own mind.

Tonight, she'll be whomever Edward wants.

On her way out the door, Bella scribbles a note to Kate in which she tells her not to wait up for her, that she'll be out very late and places it under Kate's favorite shot glass so she'll be sure to see it. When Bella heads to work, she resolves that she will not think of Edward again until she sees him.

Two minutes after changing into her uniform, her resolve crumbles.

"There you are." Angela approaches Bella and hands her a white box tied with a midnight blue satin ribbon. "You must have a secret admirer."

Bella wants to wait until she's alone to open the box, but her curiosity is overwhelming. She unties the bow and lifts the lid, under which she finds a single white gardenia nestled in a bed of tulle. Unable to resist its scent, she brings it her nose and inhales.

"Do you know who sent it?" Angela asks.

Bella knows what Angela will say about her plans with Edward, and she doesn't want to hear it. For a woman who has almost no experience with deception, lying comes surprisingly easily.

"No."

"Whoever it is gets props for originality. Is there a card?"

Bella's eyes scan the inside of the box. Sure enough, there's a piece of folded stationery tucked into the corner. She returns the bloom to the box and closes the lid. Wanting to read it in private, she silently prays Angela isn't in the mood to chat.

"It won't be a mystery for long. I'm sure whomever sent it will want to take credit at some point. Just in case it's someone shady, I'll have the boys keep an extra an eye on you tonight."

"I appreciate the gesture, but I don't think it's necessary."

"I insist." Angela turns to leave, then remembers that there is probably only one force at work in the casino greater than avarice, and it's Bella's pride. Realizing her gaffe, she adds, "We need to look out for each other, you know. It's rough out there."

Bella knows better than to argue with her supervisor. She offers her thanks along with a weak smile. The moment Angela is gone, she opens the box and retrieves the note.

Before she is able to read the words, she is struck by the beauty of the script in which they are written, not because it is flawless (though it is) but because it reminds her of her grandmother's handwriting. For the briefest of moments, she feels as if she has been transported to another time. Not necessarily a simpler one—she listened to her grandmother's stories enough to know that no such thing has ever existed—but a period when people were less rushed. Bella rarely idealizes her_ own_ past, let alone that of humanity in general, but even she sees haste as a tragedy of contemporary society. The beautiful letters on the note were carefully formed, and that in and of itself makes them precious. Their creation took something of Edward's even the wealthiest individuals can't buy.

Time.

Bella feels special but not because he bought her an exotic flower. It's because he didn't simply sign his name to a card from the florist, nor did he lazily communicate his thoughts electronically. She's so floored Hh took the time to write to her, his actual words seem unnecessary.

Then she sees what they are.

_Bella,_

_Though I envy this paper for being in your hands_

_and these words for being in your sight, ultimately, they have my gratitude._

_If not for them, you might not realize_

_how anxious I am to take their place._

_Edward_

The end of her shift can't come soon enough.

-o-

Edward waits for her, just as he said he would, outside the All-You-Can-Eat buffet. With the exception of each other, he finds everything humans eat distasteful, but the fare offered at this particular establishment is especially repulsive. He hopes this isn't Bella's idea of special and wonders what kind of cad would invite his sweetheart out to a meal where she is required to serve herself. If he is unable to convince her to go elsewhere, he will simply wait on her himself. As precautionary measure, Edward listens to the thoughts of the diners at the buffet, noting which dishes they prefer with which accoutrements, so he will know what to put on Bella's plate.

It keeps him occupied until he smells her.

He scans the crowd and sees her walking toward him, wearing a blue dress with tiny straps. Her hair is gathered loosely at the nape of her neck, leaving her throat exposed to him, and the gardenia he sent her is pinned behind her ear. The fragrance of the flower does nothing to mask the scent of her blood, which sings to him as strongly as ever. Desperate for a distraction, he focuses on an aspect of her scent that was absent during their exchange on the Boardwalk but overwhelming when he stood outside her bedroom window—her arousal.

That the simple idea of his presence elicits such a reaction from her simultaneously thrills and terrifies him.

When she is close enough to see him watching her, she smiles and waves.

"I"m sorry," she says. "I got out of work a few minutes later than I'd hoped. You haven't been waiting for me long, have you?"

"No." He regrets lying the moment the words leave his lips. It feels as if he's been waiting for her forever, but he has no idea how the passing of time feels to humans. He decides to amend his statement. "Actually, that depends upon one's perspective, I suppose. Do you consider eighty years a long time?"

"Eighty years is a lifetime, but there's no need to be melodramatic." She lets out a small laugh. "I'm not _that _late. It's only fifteen minutes after you expected me to show up."

"That's where you're wrong; I never expected you."

Bella mentally replays their conversation from the previous evening. She is sure she said that she would meet him at midnight, and doesn't begin to understand what he is talking about. Eventually, she comes to what she considers to be the only possible conclusion.

"I can't believe you thought I would stand you up. I know lots of girls around here do that, but it's not my style. If I didn't want to see you again, I would have told you I wasn't interested."

"As opposed to rewarding my creativity?"

"If I weren't interested in you, it wouldn't have mattered how creative you were. I wouldn't have agreed to go out with you."

"Ah, see, that's where we remember things differently. You permitted me to call on you here—at the All-You-Can-Eat buffet at your place of employ. You didn't agree to let me take you anywhere."

"I thought it was obvious." When she continues, her voice isn't much louder than a whisper. "You can do whatever you want with me."

The scent of her arousal increases, but it's punctuated by the smell of her fear and Edward can't help but wonder if she knows what she's offering. And if she does, he would be unable to resist. She wouldn't be the first, nor would she be the last. As far as he is concerned, vampire-assisted suicide is a dietary staple. In Bella's case, it would be a waste, but if she truly wants to die, his refusal to cooperate wouldn't stop her. Still, he won't bite her unless he's sure.

"I want to have you for dinner."

Her eyes narrow as she considers his invitation. "At your place, I assume?"

"Yes."

He studies her face, and though she's certainly afraid, her eyes don't possess the terror of a woman facing death. No, what he sees is the anxiousness of a young girl on the precipice of the unknown. Since it was now obvious to him that her permission to do whatever he wanted with her does not include eating her, it could only mean one other thing—she wants him to fuck her.

"Okay," she says, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

It no longer matters that he can't read her mind—there's no longer any doubt in his that Bella is a virgin. What he can't figure out is why she wants anything to do with him, and why a young woman of virtue would have his name on her lips as she masturbates herself to orgasm.

He knows only that he wants to keep it there.


	6. Fixation

_Chapter Five_

_Fixation_

* * *

Edward makes no move to go anywhere, and Bella wonders if he's having second thoughts—perhaps he's concerned he is taking advantage of her. She knows how young she looks out of uniform—as she discovered the previous week when she ran an errand for Kate, she can't even buy cigarettes without being carded. Short of blurting out that she's legal and that the State of New Jersey doesn't permit persons under the age of twenty-one onto a casino floor, she finds herself at a loss. Besides, if her age isn't the reason for his sudden reticence and she finds this out after she's launched into her usual tirade about the extent to which it infuriates her that because she's short and small-chested, people assume she's a child, not only will she feel like an idiot, she will have called attention to what she considers to be her two (three if she counted her breasts individually) greatest physical deficiencies.

She debates taking a few steps forward to see if he'll follow her, but then realizes she doesn't know where they're going, nor does she know where he lives. For the very first time, it occurs to her that he could be a tourist. This revelation doesn't surprise her as much as the one that follows—that he could be just about anything and she'd accept him. Hell, despite her overwhelming resentment of their presence, she'd even be okay with it if Edward were a shoobie. Her own bias notwithstanding, she knows this is the best of all possible scenarios. It's also the least realistic. More than likely, he's a transient with at least one addiction. He may not be single, and after tonight, she may never see him again. So despite the fact her panties are damp and there's a pulsing between her legs that feels so good it's borderline torturous, she second guesses her decision to go home with him.

Though Edward still can't read her mind, this is one instance where he knows what she's thinking.

"You don't _do_ this, do you?"

He's intentionally vague. Edward knows it isn't polite to inquire of a lady's previous suitors, and the last thing he wants to do is offend her. Thankfully, Bella understands what he's asking and doesn't think less of him for wanting to know.

"No," she admits.

"Neither do I...at least, I haven't in a very long time."

Her eyes widen, and she stifles a laugh. "Yeah, right. Look, I know I'm a bit younger than you...how old are you anyway?"

"Twenty-nine."

Though he looks the age he claims to be, something about his answer feels wrong to her.

"How long have you been twenty-nine?"

"Excuse me?"

"My grandmother was twenty-nine for fifty years," she explains. "She preferred it to the alternative."

"Right. Well, in my case, there _is _no alternative."

"My grandmother said the same thing. Look, I'm not even going to pretend to be worldly or sophisticated, because I think we both know that's not who I am. I'm even willing to own being inexperienced—especially compared to the women you typically date—but I'm not naïve. I know when someone's lying to me."

"Would you like to see my driver's license?"

"No, I believe you're the age you say you are. By the way, thank you for the note. It was lovely—not at all what I'd expect from someone so out of practice."

Much like Bella, Edward has no illusions about himself. He's a pervert with a fetish—at least, that's who he is while on his best behavior. Despite the advantages of his immortality, he's not all that different from his human counterparts in the sense that he doesn't usually put forth the amount of effort his best behavior requires of him. On a typical day, he self-identifies as a killer. In knowing exactly who he is, he also manages to know who he is not.

And he'll be damned (more so than he already is) if Bella thinks of him as a manwhore.

"I honestly can't remember the last time I took a woman out on a date—that's what I meant when I said I haven't done this in a very long time."

Bella scrutinizes his face, trying to make sense of his claim. He appears earnest, but she knows better. Angela has witnessed him leave the casino in the company of various strumpets, and Bella saw his strawberry blonde conquest with her own eyes. She reminds herself that while his actions may have been immoral, they were perfectly within his right. As much as she wishes otherwise, he doesn't belong to her. She wouldn't begin to know how to entertain him if he did.

"No." She struggles to keep her voice neutral. "You've just _taken_ many women."

"Yes." His answer is automatic. "But that was different."

"Is this where you claim you've reformed?"

"I'm _far _from reformed."

She laughs at his honesty. "Oh, so in other words, I'm different from the others." Her tone, while sweet, drips with sarcasm. "I'm special."

"You are both different and special."

She believes him because she wants to, and because despite her earlier insistence to the contrary, she _is_ naïve.

As she waits for him to elaborate, the extent of her nervousness is palpable—her hands are folded behind her back so she won't be tempted to bite her nails, and she's shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

It only endears her to him further. He realizes that although he wants to take her home with him, he wouldn't dream of bringing her to his local pied-à-terre. The idea of Bella's feet touching the same floorboards on which he has satisfied virtually every kind of lust in existence is repugnant to him. She's better than that, and should be treated as such.

In that moment, he wishes more than anything he paid closer attention to humans. As far as contemporary seduction is concerned, he's an expert, but he knows nothing of modern romance. Reasoning that courtship could not have changed that much, he decides to take Bella to the kind of place he would have taken his sweetheart when he was her age.

"I have an idea," he says. "Come with me."

He extends his hand to her, then thinks better of it. As much as he wants to touch her, he knows his skin will be cold against hers. When he kissed her hand the previous evening, had she remarked on his temperature, he would have blamed it on the cool ocean breeze. Inside the hotel, there were no such excuses. He knows he couldn't bear it if she were to return his physical affection with disgust. He drops his arm to his side, and for the briefest of seconds, his cheeks feel warm. Shocked and confused, he brings his fingers to his face only to confirm his skin is as smooth and lifeless as it always is. He then realizes he's embarrassed.

It's an emotion he hasn't experienced since blood coursed through his veins, and he was actually capable of blushing. Though his physiology no longer supports any kind of physical manifestation of anxiety, he feels it intensely enough that for a moment, he believes his face had become pink. And in that instant, he forgets how it feels to kill. He is able to pretend that he doesn't coerce his victims into bringing themselves to climax before he feeds on them, that he doesn't have a collection of erotic pictures of the men and women whose lives he's taken, and that he isn't a sexual predator with a fetish for drinking human blood laced with post-orgasmic endorphins. At least, that isn't who he is when he's with Bella. Now he's just another boy with a crush—a boy who wants more than anything to hold his sweetheart's hand but fears she will reject him.

In a nervous habit from his youth, he raises his hand to run it through his hair. Bella misinterprets his gesture—she thinks that Edward must have recognized the expression on her face as disappointment and therefore changed his mind about touching her. She raises her hand to meet his, and when she realized grasping hers was not his intention, it's Bella's turn to be embarrassed.

Though the blood coloring her cheeks appeals to him, her discomfort does not. The last thing he wants is for her to feel as if he is rejecting her.

Deciding that if he isn't going to eat her, he has no choice but to get used to the idea of taking certain liberties with her—and ideally, she would eventually begin to do so with him. He gives her the same smile he uses to lure his prey, and this time when he extends his hand to her, he does so with the charm and grace one would expect from a practiced serial killer.

When he speaks again, it's a single word.

"Come."

She places her hand in his. With extreme care not to crush her bones, he twines his fingers through hers. Edward's hand feels unlike any Bella's ever held, but not for the reasons he feared it would. Her mind registers the difference, and credits it to the fact that unlike the feelings she had for the last man who touched her, Bella actually likes Edward. Furthermore, if his note to her was sincere, he likes her, too.

She'll let him lead her wherever he wants.

**-o-**

Steel Pier has changed quite a bit since Edward's youth, but the overall mood is the same. Though it no longer boasts all-day picture shows and diving horses, it still provides a would-be suitor the means to earn his lady's attention through far more honorable means than poker. Even more importantly, there is enough seclusion to permit stealing kisses but not enough privacy to damage a reputation. For this reason, Edward wants to ride with Bella on the Ferris Wheel.

They walk along the pier holding hands, breaking contact only long enough for Edward to purchase tickets.

"The last time I went on any of these rides was after my senior prom," Bella says. "My date was drunk; he threw up on me on the Tilt-a-Whirl."

"That's rather unfortunate."

"The whole experience pretty much sucked."

Edward is far too distracted by the warmth of her hand to think about why she related this particular anecdote to him. Then she gives him a gentle tug, and her gaze meets his. Her eyes are wide, and he can see she's no less nervous than she was outside the all-you-can-eat buffet.

"You have nothing to worry about. Not only do I not drink alcohol, I'm physically incapable of vomiting without great effort."

"Right," she says, laughing. "I've heard that before—usually prefacing an offer to teach me how to suppress my gag reflex."

"I sincerely hope you're kidding." He struggles to control his rage at the idea anyone would treat Bella so disrespectfully.

"No. When your work uniform consists of little more than lingerie, customers assume they can take liberties with you."

"Isn't that what people are calling sexual harassment these days? Please tell me _you_ took the liberty of slapping him."

"No." She shakes her head and shrugs. "I need my job too much."

Though he understands her dilemma, he can't bring himself to tolerate such demeaning behavior toward the woman he'd like to make his.

"Next time something like that happens, let me know and I'll take care of it." That his anger is at all hypocritical doesn't occur to him.

"I appreciate the offer," she says, "but there's not much you could about it, outside of killing the guy and making it look like an accident."

"Murder is much easier to get away with than you realize."

Laughing, she squeezes his hand. "Why do I get the feeling _everything_ is easy for you? Well, besides puking, of course."

She can't remember the last time anyone was angry on her behalf—jokingly or otherwise. It provides a nice fantasy for her, but not of retaliation against those who've treated her poorly. After all, Bella couldn't be malicious if she tried. It's the idea of coming home to a person who cares about her enough to become angry when casino patrons demean her. She doesn't linger on the daydream, though. For the first time in recent memory, living in her present is pleasant enough.

Though the sky is black as they climb onto the Ferris wheel, they're bathed in the multi-colored lights of the pier and the boardwalk. The ride begins to move, and as they ascend to the top, distance alters their perceptions of their surroundings. Atlantic City looks almost pretty, and Edward feels almost normal. He finds this revelation surprising. Even before he became a vampire, normalcy was not a quality he would rank among his attributes.

Their conversation is clichè, and given the amount of time Edward has walked the earth, he should find it incredibly dull. He doesn't, because even though the subjects that arise are predictable, her responses are anything but.

"Where are you from?" she asks.

"New York."

She rolls her eyes. "Typical."

"Is this because of sports? Let me guess—you hate the Yankees."

"No. I mean, yes. Of course I hate the Yankees...and the Mets and the Giants and the Rangers. That goes without saying, but my general dislike of New York isn't about that." She's laughing, but it's twinged with sadness.

"What is it about then?"

"Real estate values, housing bubbles, and entitlement, but I'd prefer not to get into it. Besides, my bias is not specific to people from New York; it applies to everyone who comes down here thinking they can make a quick buck."

"Gamblers?"

She nods. "But not the kind who frequent the casino—they're mostly harmless. I'm talking about people who bet on other people's misfortune. Anyway, I'm sorry if I offended you. I know not everyone from offshore is evil." After a pause, she changes the subject. "Do your parents still live up there?"

"No. They died a long time ago."

"I'm sorry."

It's true, even if a small part of her is grateful to meet someone capable of understanding her loneliness.

"It's fine, really. I never really knew them. My mother died having me, and though my father lived to see me come of age, he was part of a generation of men with means who didn't concern themselves with their offspring. I don't miss them as much as I miss what they represent."

Understanding all too well what he means, she scoots a bit closer to him on the seat.

"A feeling of belonging." She rests her head on his shoulder, sighing.

Her scent assaults him, and the urge to drink from her is almost unbearable. He reasons away his bloodlust, telling himself it would be a waste without his camera. Not only that, but without the enhancement of post-orgasm endorphins, human blood holds about as much appeal to him as a virgin margarita would to an alcoholic. Feeding from Bella would quench his thirst, but he'd derive no real satisfaction from it unless he made her come first.

It presents an interesting dilemma. His last remaining shred of humanity craves her climax for the usual reasons a man would want to give physical pleasure to his lover. But if ecstasy should come to her while in his arms—if her blood were to become scented with orgasmic intoxication while his teeth were in proximity to her neck—would he be able to resist the euphoria it promises? He won't know the answer without testing his resolve.

He slides their joined hands over the fabric of her skirt, brushing the back of his hand against the bare skin of her knee. Her breathing deepens as he drags their entwined fingers along her inner thigh. With her free hand, she adjusts her skirt—both to give him better access and provide some privacy from onlookers. His exploration continues, until his pinky brushes against her cotton underwear. He lets go of her hand and places it against her Venus mound. If she were anyone else, he'd tell her to touch herself.

"Push your panties out of the way," he whispers.

Everything about his command feels forbidden, but that's part of the appeal. Silencing her inner warnings, she hooks her index finger around the crotch of her underwear and pulls it to the side. There's a heightened awareness of everything—the cool wind against her exposed lips, the movement of the Ferris wheel, his breath against her face. Her quickened heartbeat rushes blood through her veins, intensifying her excitement. She thinks she'll die if he doesn't touch her.

He thinks she'll die if he does.


	7. Red Eye Reduction

I don't own _Twilight._

_Thanks to Kathy and Linsey.  
_

* * *

Chapter Six

Red Eye Reduction

* * *

Edward isn't sure what he finds more appalling—the fact that he's about to steal far more than a kiss from a respectable young lady, or that his particular tastes dictate he do so in public so as to decrease the likelihood that he will eat her. The heat between her legs warms his fingers, but he can't bring himself to initiate skin-to-skin contact, though not for the reasons one would think. He knows that the moment he does, he'll become something he detests—an exhibitionist.

Knees apart with her body pressed against his side, she waits and she wants.

"Please," she whispers.

He isn't sure if she's begging for her life, for a pleasure unto death, or for death itself. Like most vampires, Edward has a bit of a god complex, so he feels entitled to decide on her behalf. Determining the answer is pleasure, he drags his fingertips across the smooth skin of her thigh, testing both his willpower and her arousal. She breathes deeply as she buries her face into his neck, and he realizes both are substantial.

The idea that she will let him touch her intimately but hide her face as he does so presents a fascinating contradiction that is not lost on him. Her willingness to welcome whatever sensations he may bring her while remaining self-conscious at the way her body will respond to the ensuing ecstasy only increases the extent to which she appeals to him, even if it does present him with a bit of a problem. He doesn't know how sensitive she is or how easily she reaches orgasm, nor does he trust that a girl of her inexperience could have any control over her responses. There's one thing he does know—if she climaxes, she'll die.

It will probably prove to be an exercise in futility, but he cares about her life enough to warn her.

"Whatever you do—no matter how good it feels—you musn't come. Do you understand me?"

It doesn't seem like a strange request to her. They are in public, after all, and Edward has no way of knowing the extent to which she verbalizes pleasure. If she's loud, she'll call attention to what they are doing. She doesn't want that any more than he does, so she nods her consent.

The fact that she has no real comprehension to what she's consenting is of little consequence to him. As far as he is concerned, she's granted him permission to do as he pleases to her—at least for as long as the Ferris wheel continues to turn.

So he does. His thumb brushes over her mons, seeking the slippery pink skin of her inner labia. He begins to stroke her with a light touch that intentionally lacks rhythm; he has no goal other than to acclimate himself to her softness, her responsiveness, and her heat.

"Please," she says again.

His shifts his thumb downward into her vestibule, then slowly presses it inside her. She rolls her head across his shoulder, gasping. He feels her breath against his neck and her lips on his throat, and for a moment, he wonders if she is even aware of what she's doing. Then he feels the moisture of her mouth, and he no longer doubts that she's kissing him intentionally.

It's the first gesture of affection he's received in decades, and it awakens yet another long-dormant desire—he finds himself wanting to be normal. It's something he's never done well, not even when he was human. He isn't even sure how he'd go about it, but he knows this much: Under normal circumstances, a man would attempt to kiss his virgin sweetheart before finger-fucking her on a carnival ride.

Just as the ride begins to slow, he slips his thumb out of her and pulls her panties back into place. The timing works in his favor; she doesn't question why he's stopped touching her. Instead, she shifts in her seat, unable to believe what just transpired.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"For what?" There's a hint of panic in her voice. She doesn't regret what they've done, and doesn't know how she'll feel if she finds out he does.

"Taking certain liberties with you." His choice of words is deliberate—they're the same ones she used earlier to describe what male casino patrons do to her when she is in uniform.

He doesn't have time to elaborate. The Ferris wheel comes to a stop, and as he helps Bella get off, he thinks about helping Bella get off. His ability to resist draining her blood the previous evening as he watched her bring herself to climax from the bushes outside her trailer notwithstanding, he has no doubt that had she been in his arms while she did so, it would have been the last moment of her life.

He offers Bella his hand and she takes it, smiling nervously.

"I didn't mind," she says after they begin to walk along the pier again.

He's impressed that she remembers the exact point in the conversation at which they were interrupted. Then he realizes that more than likely, she remembers because she feels awkward with where they left things.

"You deserve more than that. Meanwhile, I treated you no better than one of the intoxicated casino patrons to whom you serve drinks."

"Maybe, but I would argue there is one major difference between you and the guys who come on to me at work."

"Obviously." He doesn't elaborate.

"Is it, though? You probably won't believe me given the way I behaved earlier, but what just happened between us isn't something I do."

"You're not in the habit of letting strangers put their fingers inside you in public?"

"No. I mean, I know that technically I just did, but it's not something I'd ever done before. "

"Ah, so you make your suitors earn your affection."

"You're operating on the assumption that I have suitors; I don't."

"I find that hard to believe."

"It's true. I don't want you to think this is a poor, pitiful me rant about how hard it is to find a decent man. I've just never tried. Between work and school, I don't have much free time. So no, I've never done _that_ before. I just didn't want you to think..." She stops speaking, unsure of how much she should tell him.

"You don't want me to think you're a slut."

She drops his hand and faces him. "Do you?"

"Do I what?" he asks.

"Think I'm a slut?"

She misinterprets his ensuing laughter as mockery. In reality, he isn't amused by her apparent anger as much as he is entertained by the notion that he'd judge her for her participation in an act which he instigated. Then he realizes her feelings are hurt.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm not laughing at you. It would be incredibly hypocritical of me if I thought less of you for letting me touch you." His face becomes serious, and he closes the distance between them. After wrapping an arm around her waist, he speaks directly into her ear. "I know promiscuity, and I know perversion. I've photographed things you can't begin to imagine. Sometimes, I've even participated. Every experience I've had pales in comparison to how it felt to have something of mine inside that part of you. Any man who would think less of you for parting your legs for him doesn't deserve you."

He takes a step back and a superfluous breath, and as he inhales her scent, he realizes that it doesn't sing to him the way it did initially, that he has a measure of control over it. Then again, for as long as he's been a vampire, he's satisfied all of his baser needs at once. He watches. He becomes aroused. He takes pictures. He drinks. He comes. He rarely deviates from the process, so the fact Bella's still alive is not indicative of any progress on his part.

She shifts back slightly and looks at his face. "Do you deserve me?"

"No," he admits, "but not because I begrudge you the right to give your body to whomever you choose."

"Why then?"

He pauses, trying to think of a polite way to phrase that as long as she is in his company, her life is at stake.

"I doubt my ability to give you what you need."

She laughs. "Way to set a girl's expectations low so you can exceed them."

They start to walk again, and the conversation is lighter. This time when they clasp hands, she feels enough at ease with him to comment on his temperature.

"Poor circulation," he says, shrugging.

He asks if it bothers her; she says it doesn't, that she only mentioned it because she was concerned that he wasn't comfortable. They descend the steps from the boardwalk to the beach. With the glow of the casinos behind them, it's impossible to see where the sky ends and the ocean begins and besides the white foam capping the incoming tide, there's nothing in front of them but indiscernible night.

Until this evening, Bella's never done anything that could be construed as irresponsible, let alone reckless. Yet as she walks along the desolate beach with a man she doesn't really know, she doesn't feel fear. She feels free, and it's because of him.

She stops moving, and as her feet sink into the sand, she studies him in the darkness. He's so pale that his skin has taken on an almost bluish hue, and his eyes are once again black. She's always heard that the first time should be unforgettable, and she already knows he is someone she'll remember. She feels ready, so she presses her body against his and brushes her fingers through his hair.

"I want you," she whispers.

Edward considers her request. He's increasingly confident that he could make love to her and resist the call of her blood, assuming she doesn't orgasm. Taking her virginity shouldn't present a risk. Very few women climax during their first experiences with intercourse, and Edward's read enough minds to know that the majority of married women aren't satisfied physically by their husbands. What bitter irony that despite his fetish-driven sexual and dietary preferences, he and Bella could have what many would consider a normal sex life. The problem is that he suspects she'd prefer death.

Though he wants nothing more than to do as she asks, he finds himself doing what he believes to be right.

"As much as I want you, I won't put you at risk."

She assumes he wants to be tested for STDs or something first, so although she is disappointed, she understands.

They walk along the beach a bit more, and though Edward loves her company, he doesn't want to risk daylight. He drives her home, walks her to her door, and asks if he can see her tomorrow. Her answer is a little too enthusiastic, but he finds it endearing.

He walks back to his car with a spring in his step, pretending he doesn't know that one way or the other, this won't end well.

* * *

This is the craziest thing I've ever tried to write; thank you for humoring me by reading it.


	8. Selective Focus

I don't own _Twilight. _

* * *

_Chapter Seven_

_Selective Focus_

* * *

When Bella opens the door, she's rubbing her eyes and squinting, leaving no question that Edward's impromptu visit to her trailer disrupted her slumber. Not having personally experienced the need for repose in quite some time, he doesn't know where it ranks in importance among Bella's necessities, so he thinks of the hierarchy of his own needs. At its most basic level, his survival requires nothing other than blood. It's only because the act of feeding has become so tied to his fetish play that it's extremely difficult for him to satisfy his sanguinary needs independently from his sexual ones. Regardless of how the Red Cross would classify his victims, as far as he is concerned, they're always Type O. It occurs to him that Bella's need for sleep could be comparable to his need for sluts, and he feels like a bit of an ass for disturbing her.

Then he notices what she has on—or more specifically, what she doesn't have on—and he can't find it within himself to regret his impetuousness. He can plainly see the shadows of her areolas through her thin white cotton T-shirt, and he feels something similar to how he would have felt if as a young boy, he caught an unintentional glimpse of ankle under a petticoat. The dirty rush of getting away with seeing something he shouldn't is familiar, but lacks the shame he would have felt in his youth. If the past hundred years or so have taught Edward anything, it's the extent to which he likes feeling dirty. It isn't until he puts his hand in the front pocket of his trousers and adjusts himself that he feels a twinge of embarrassment—not because he's abashed at the way in which his body responds to her, but because he doesn't want her to feel uncomfortable.

His sentiment is wasted. A veteran whore would be affected by the intensity of the lust in his eyes; it's going to take a lot more than a half-hearted attempt to conceal his erection for Bella to feel at ease with his obvious concupiscence. Self-conscious under the heat of his gaze, she folds her arms across her chest, blushing.

He's dumbfounded by her modesty, which makes no sense to him given the liberties she'd permitted him the previous evening. He likes her ability to surprise him.

"Good afternoon," he says, grinning. "Aren't you going to let me in?"

She hesitates, thinking she's dreaming. On the off-chance she isn't, she also thinks she should go put on some panties before inviting him inside.

"What are you doing here?"

"Don't you remember? Last night, I asked if I could see you again today, and you agreed. In fact, you seemed more than a little excited at the prospect."

"Right. I was—I mean, I am. I guess I just expected you to call first."

He knows he shouldn't have appeared at her door without warning, but if he's going to make a genuine effort not to peep at her from outside her bedroom window, he needs to get his fix somehow. Cloaked by the darkness of a late-afternoon thunderstorm, he's able to make a rare daytime appearance—what little sun gets through the clouds is safe for him. He doesn't regret inconveniencing Bella—dropping by unannounced gives him the perfect opportunity to surprise both her and her nipples. Evidently, the latter wake up far more quickly than the former—though Bella is still very obviously groggy, her breasts appear to be ready for company. She catches him staring at her nipples, so he pretends that he's deciphering the words on her T-shirt.

"New Jersey: Where the Weak Are Killed and Eaten," he reads aloud. After a brief pause, he laughs.

It's unguarded and real, like nothing she's encountered since she's been on her own. She wants to record it and make it his personalized ringtone on her cellphone or something equally asinine given the fact she's a grown woman. As such, she should be beyond such adolescent female behavior as recording his voice without his consent, collecting things he's touched, and doodling her hypothetical married name on random scraps of paper. Except she isn't beyond that sort of thing, and if she knew what Edward's last name was, there'd be written evidence of her infatuation hidden in the recycling bin in her kitchen.

Upon silencing her inner twelve-year-old, Bella realizes that although Edward's laughter is incredibly attractive, she has no idea what he finds so amusing. The slogan on her T-shirt isn't _that_ funny.

"What?" she asks.

He nods toward her chest. "Truer words have never been spoken. Though to be fair, I enjoyed my place at the top of the food chain long before taking up residence in your home state. Now, back to the issue at hand. If standing on ceremony is really that important to you, I'll get back in my car and call you to let you know that I'm in the neighborhood and ask permission to call on you. Please decide quickly. Not only am I getting drenched out here, but you're not exactly appropriately attired to be standing there with your door wide open."

"As if anyone can see."

The possibility that she could be flashing her neighbors is the least of her concerns—their opinions don't matter to her.

"I assure you, at this very moment, there's a fourteen-year-old boy in the red trailer across the way, watching us through the slats of his bedroom's miniblinds, unable to believe his luck."

Bella thinks Edward is lying to her despite his frighteningly accurate description of her neighbor's son, but just in case he isn't, she gestures him inside and pulls the door closed. The T-shirt in which she slept covers her ass only if she doesn't raise her arms, leaving her in a bit of a conundrum. No matter what she does (outside of asking him to close his eyes) she'll be partially exposed as she darts into her bedroom to throw on some clothes.

"This isn't how I pictured our second date."

She doesn't intend for him to hear her, but he does; his ensuing smile confirms it. As if her semi-nudity isn't making her feel awkward enough, he now knows that she dreams of him. Not wanting him to think she's a psychopath, she tries to explain.

"Like, I didn't make plans or anything. I'm not pretending we're in relationship; I wasn't getting ahead of myself."

"You just assumed you'd be dressed, and I wouldn't be soaked to the bone–"

"Well...yeah."

"If you get me a towel, I can dry off. Of course, that does nothing to address your missing panties–"

"I'll put on clothes."

"Underneath them, you'll still be wet."

"Probably," she whispers, unable to meet his gaze.

Bella isn't sure which she finds more off-putting—his ability to arouse her so quickly, or the fact that he knows he has this power over her.

"Why don't I go do that?"

"A towel would be much appreciated, but I'd prefer that you not put on clothes."

With her arms glued to her side in a futile attempt to avoid displaying her backside to him, she retrieves a towel from the bathroom. She reemerges seconds later, she's still clad only in her T-shirt. She doesn't look at him as she hands him the towel, and can only assume that he uses it.

"How can you offer me your body yet exhibit visible discomfort at the prospect of letting me see it?" He takes a step forward, making him close enough to touch her. "Raise your arms above your head."

Her fear of him makes no sense in the context of her desire for him, but she feels it nonetheless and trembles as she contemplates doing his bidding. Regardless, she complies; a small part of her acknowledges she always will. For several heartbeats she waits, expecting him to brush the newly-exposed skin of her hips and thighs with his fingertips, but he doesn't. He touches her only with his gaze, which she can feel feasting upon her flesh even though her eyes remain closed—she still doesn't think she can look at him as he looks at her.

Careful not to touch her inappropriately, he tugs her shirt over her head and tosses it aside. The urge is overwhelming—not to drink of her, because he knows that in of itself will not fulfill him. He wants to touch her, to feel her come apart in his fingers. He wants to take her picture, to capture the glow of her pale skin and the soft lines of her body. It isn't because she's beautiful, though she is, nor is it because he'd get pleasure from doing so, though he would. That feeling is not new to him, and though what Bella has inspired in him isn't either, it's been dormant for so many decades it may as well be. She's made him feel alive.

Completely nude, with her arms above her head, it's impossible not to notice her nervousness. She's taking shallow breaths, as is evident by the rapid rise and fall of her ribcage and her eyes remain downcast. Though he wants to memorize every curve, every freckle, and every scar, there's something about looking at her without her consent that feels wrong, even though less that forty-eight hours ago, he was watching her masturbate from the bushes outside her bedroom window. He doesn't want to be like that, so for the first time in his life, he asks permission.

"You mean you haven't looked already?"

"Not today."

Assuming he's teasing her, she smiles. When she doesn't answer his question or look up, he tries his luck at a new one.

"Why won't you make eye-contact with me?"

"I'm afraid."

"Smart girl." He won't tell her that her fear is unfounded; he doesn't want to lie to her. "I don't want to hurt you."

"But you're not always in control of your actions." Her tone is bitter; she's heard this before, usually as justification for selfish behavior.

"No," he admits.

Sighing, she brings her arms down and crosses them in front of her breasts. She isn't bothered by her nudity—having grown up on the beach, she spent the majority of her leisure time in swimsuits that covered far less than the flimsy white T-shirt she was wearing when she opened the door. The problem is she feels exposed around Edward whether she's clothed or not, and though she's more than ready to share herself physically with him, she doesn't want to fall in love with him.

"Bella, please look at me."

"No." She doesn't realize he's actually asking her to _see_ him.

"Why not?"

"Because if anything in the way you look at me reminds me of the way the drunk assholes at work look at me, I won't be able to go through with this. And as much as I want to go through with this, I don't want to feel objectified or like a means to an end...you know, the kind of person someone like you uses once and then discards. At the same time, I'm afraid that you won't and I don't want to like you more than I already do. I can't see how any good could come from that." She closes her eyes and sighs. "Does any of this make sense to you?"

It does, so he wants her to know the truth.

"When I first saw you, I _did_ entertain the thought of bringing you home with me."

"The night you were rude to me?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you?"

He pauses for a moment, thinking. "After a few moments in your presence, I realized you were different."

"How so?"

"I can't tell what you're thinking, and that's a first for me."

"In other words, you see through women."

"Not just women, people in general. Most are only out for themselves. Since who you are isn't obvious, I have to work to know you. I enjoy it; it reminds me of a time when things were simpler."

In that instant, the connection she feels to him increases exponentially.

"You idealize your childhood, don't you?" she asks.

When he answers, he seems almost wistful. "More than you know."

"Me, too."

They share a moment of silent reflection.

"Had you hit on me that first night, you probably would have gotten laid."

"Even though I was obnoxious?" He's simultaneously amused and horrified.

"Yes." Because her attraction to him is no longer purely sexual, she is able to admit that initially it was. "I might not have heard from you afterward, but I would have had a better first experience with sex than any other girl I know. I mean, I don't expect losing my virginity to be earth-shattering, but I'd like to enjoy it. Something tells me you're the kind of guy who makes sure the person you're with comes before you do. Am I right?"

"Yes."

Her eyes meet his, but instead of the cocky pride she expects, she sees something almost like remorse. Like most genuine emotion, it's fleeting.

"I didn't always take pictures. Before photography became an accessible hobby, I painted."

It's a strange topic change, but she indulges him, wanting to know anything he is willing to tell her.

"You mean when cameras went digital?"

"No, I still shoot film. Anyway, I like to capture it...the moment of climax. Everyone reacts to it differently. So yes, the women I take home with me almost always come. It would defeat the purpose if they didn't."

"Oh," she says. "I'm not comfortable doing that with you."

"Neither am I—not yet, anyway. But I would like to sketch you. I'll be a perfect gentlemen. We can talk while I work, and maybe you'll become more comfortable with how I look at you."

"Why?"

"Despite what my occupation would imply, I am a bit of a romantic. You aren't like the others, therefore you deserve your own medium. Besides, a photograph can be taken in a fraction of a second. That's not nearly enough time for us."

She makes her decision with the speed of a shutter photographing a quickly moving object.

"Where do you want me?"

* * *

As always, thank you for reading. This was typed out with a sick sleeping toddler on my shoulder, so I can only hope it's coherent. If you feel so moved, I'd love to hear your comments.


	9. Resolution

I don't own _Twilight_.

For Kate.

* * *

Chapter Eight

Resolution

* * *

Twenty minutes later, she's lying on her stomach facing the foot of her bed. Her chin rests upon her folded hands, and her hair is gathered onto one of her shoulders. Edward sits in the corner on a kitchen chair, studying the way the dim light from the lamp on her bedside table creates shadows on the pale skin of her back.

It's comfortable for both of them. Because her breasts and pubis are covered, she doesn't feel naked, even though she is. Meanwhile, her modest pose reminds Edward of the erotic photos of his youth. Watching her as he does while his hand produces a flurry of furious movements across the paper, he is almost able to forget that he wants to eat her...but not quite.

"If you don't draw anymore, why do you keep art supplies in your car?"

He laughs. "You think I planned this as a means to get you out of your clothing. May I remind you that you were in your current state of undress long before I brought up the subject of posing for me?"

"You have to admit, it's suspect."

"Kind of like answering the door with your commodity hanging out."

"My commodity?" she repeats, giggling. "That's a new one."

"Perhaps to you. I assure you, the expression itself is quite old. Anyway, I do still sketch. I also paint. Neither are my preferred medium."

"And you're able to make a living taking pictures of o faces?"

"It perpetuates my survival, yes. Money isn't something I think about."

"Must be nice."

Her words are heavy with emotion, but not the ones he expects. There's no bitterness to her voice, no envy, just a bit of pride and determination.

He shakes his head, simultaneously impressed and dumbfounded.

"What?" she asks.

"You intrigue me. I've never encountered anyone like you. Why has no man claimed you?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"They've tried, but I prefer women."

She laughs. "Good to know, though I'd assumed as much. I'm talking about your relationship status. Given your age and your...well...appeal, I'd think at the very least you'd have a girlfriend, possibly even a wife."

"Ah. Well, I had one of those once."

"You've only had one girlfriend?"

"No. I've never had anything like that, but I was married at one point."

"You must have been young."

"I suppose I was, by today's standards. It felt right at the time, and it was expected of me."

She suddenly understands. "Oh, so you _had_ to get married."

"There would have been a scandal if I hadn't."

She nods expressionlessly, just taking it in.

"Does this surprise you?"

"Nothing surprises me. What happened?"

He shifts in his chair, and she regrets asking.

"You don't have to answer. It's not really any of my business...well...unless..."

"What?"

"You aren't still married, are you?"

"No," he answers. "I haven't been for quite some time."

She wants to ask about the baby, but she doesn't want to pry. Noticing he's stopped sketching, she changes the subject.

"Are you finished?" She angles her head toward his sketchpad.

"This drawing is complete, but I'm far from finished."

His smile makes her tingle between her legs, and she's grateful to be lying on her stomach.

"May I reposition you?"

"Sure."

He moves toward her and kneels beside the bed. Though he's close enough to touch her, he doesn't. Then she rolls onto her side, exposing the front of her body to his gaze. So he looks—at her rose-colored nipples, at the curve of her hips, at the triangle of dark curls at the meeting of her thighs. Though she's lovely in the nude, he thinks he'd prefer her in a corset and stockings, maybe with a chemise pushed off her shoulders. He wonders if she'd dress that way for him if he asked. Then she props up her head and smiles at him. He doesn't understand why she trusts him, but he is grateful that she does even if she shouldn't. So despite the fact he is reaping the benefits of her naïvetè, he fears for her safety in his absence.

"Why are you here with me?" he asks. "I can't imagine you're in the habit of taking off your clothing for strangers."

"Not anymore," she admits, sighing. "I tried to be a stripper. I lasted all of a day. I had no problem dancing on a pole— that was easy. I dance at home at all the time, so I pretended that's what I was doing. But when I had to give my first lapdance, I knew I wouldn't be able to make a go of it. He was hard, and though I know that's the point, it made me feel like a hooker. I mean, I'd dry humped my high-school boyfriend, so rubbing against a clothed peen wasn't a new experience. Accepting money for it though...I'm not that desperate. That was when I decided to rent my house out during the summer. It's the least of all possible evils and enables me to hang onto at least some dignity. And I make decent enough money at the casino. My uniform may make me feel like a whore, but I don't feel as if I'm trading my body for money. No one touches me, so I can deal with feeling mildly objectified."

"Do you feel that way now?"

She shakes her head. "That's the strange thing—I don't. I mean, there are times when you look at me as if I'm your next meal, and that makes me nervous, but only because it's so intense and I'm not used to it."

"I _do _want to eat you, and that _should_ make you nervous."

There's a flutter in her pelvis, and she clenches her thighs together tightly, trying to conceal the extent to which his admission arouses her. She can imagine no greater feeling than his tongue stroking her clit, and can only hope it's something she'll experience.

"Anyway, you're the only guy I've ever met who actually sees me, so I want you to look." Her cheeks color, and she averts her eyes. "And touch and taste."

He wants those things, too, but not without her knowing who he is.

"I never touch my models," he explains. "And I don't permit them to touch me."

"Oh," she says. Though part of her is relieved to discover he's not the manwhore she believed him to be, she fears that in an agreeing to pose for him, she's eliminated any possibility of being anything more.

"I don't talk to them much, either. I don't like to relate to them. As far as I'm concerned, they're just objects."

"Still life with orgasm and dripping vag?"

"Something like that," he admits with a laugh.

"So if you don't touch them, how do they..."

"They touch themselves."

"Oh," she says, nodding.

"It's less personal that way."

"Call me old-fashioned, but I'm of the opinion that masturbation is very personal. I mean, I've never done it with an audience."

"That you know of."

It's a strange response, and she feels compelled to call him on it.

"Is this where you admit that you've followed me home from work, snuck around the outside of my trailer to my bedroom window and watched me jerk off?"

"Yes," he says, not wanting to lie to her.

She looks at him disbelievingly for a moment, then decides he must be kidding. She throws back her head and laughs.

"I wasn't expecting you to find that amusing."

"Most girls wouldn't, but I have a dark sense of humor."

"I do, too."

Absolved by her laughter, he finds himself able to relax. He sits back on his heels and rests his hand on the bed beside her. Though he's told her she's different, that she isn't like the others who lie before him naked, she sees his hand on her chenille bedspread and recognizes the opportunity it presents her. Ever so slowly, she covers it with her own.

He focuses on her fingers as they gently brush his skin. They're soft and warm, and he wonders how they would feel wrapped around his cock.

"Is this okay?" she asks. "I know you don't permit your models to touch you."

"You're nothing like them." He proves this to her the only way he can. Cupping her face with his free hand, he brushes his thumb across her cheek.

She closes her eyes and angles her head into his palm; she wants nothing more than to be close to him. His lips are unyielding as they press against hers—she'd describe them as hard if his skin weren't so soft. The combination seems to defy logic, but so does everything else about him, therefore she doesn't dwell on it. When his tongue traces the underside of her top lip, she decides she doesn't care.

Her hands grip his shirt and pulls him toward her. At least, he raises himself onto his knees to give her that illusion. His mouth is still moving with hers as she starts to work on his buttons. When his shirt is open, she presses her palms against his pectoral muscles and grazes her thumbs across his nipples. They're unnaturally hard, but then again given her state of arousal, she doesn't doubt hers are as well.

His hands find her hair as he climbs onto the bed beside her, letting out a low growl as she pushes his shirt over his shoulders. Before he can think better of it, he's between her legs, his bare chest pressed against her, flattening her breasts. She's soft and fleshy, and though he loves her initiative in a way hadn't thought possible, he fears he'll break her if he loses control.

"You're making a liar out of me," he says after moving his lips away from hers.

"How so?"

"I told you if you permitted me to sketch you, I'd a gentleman. Though admittedly, my manners are not what they used to be, I'm certain that precludes any activity that places me between your legs. This being established, I think I should return to my seat and recommence drawing you."

"I like you where you are. Besides, I thought you said you wanted to eat me."

"This isn't a joke, Bella. I don't think you realize how close you are to losing your virtue...among other things."

"Or I do, and the thought appeals to me."

He studies her face and thinks about what she's saying. Doing her bidding only seems immoral because she doesn't know what she's asking. The answer is clear to him.

"I want to take you home with me."

"To your rental?" she asks.

"No, to my house in New York. I want you to see it, to know who I am and what I come from. If your feelings about giving yourself to me don't change, I'll give myself to you in any capacity you'd like."

She doesn't have to consider his offer.

"When can we leave?"

* * *

**End Note:**

"Commodity" is Victorian slang for female genitalia.

_Art After 5_ is currently back up on my website, but it won't be there forever.

Thank you for your reviews. Though my carpal tunnel is making replying to them quite difficult, I appreciate each and every one.


	10. Balance

I don't own _Twilight._

_Thanks to Sasha.  
_

* * *

Chapter Nine

Balance

* * *

Ekaterina Petrova claims she eschews her birthname during her time in the States because of an unfortunate American tendency to butcher its pronunciation, but this is only slightly true. In actuality, it's a way for her to break from who she really is and be something her situation at home forbids. On the other side of the world from her familial responsibilities, she's able to be young. Because of this, she feels connected to Bella in ways that individuals who focus on life's more superficial aspects don't understand. Like Bella, Kate is a caregiver who values the needs of those she loves above her own. Their passports may be different colors and they may write with different alphabets, but fundamentally they're the same.

When Kate arrives home from work to find a Jaguar with darkly tinted windows and New York license plates parked out front, she knows Bella is entertaining the guy she went out with the previous evening. Rather than being annoyed by the presence of a strange man in her trailer, she's thrilled Bella finally has something in her life besides work. Kate doesn't want to interrupt, nor does she want to make Bella feel uncomfortable, so she enters the trailer as noisily as possible before retreating to her bedroom and closing the door. After discarding her work clothes, she collapses on her bed in exhaustion. She wants to shower, but decides to wait until after Bella's guest has left. Thinking she'll nap in the interim, she closes her eyes and rolls onto her side. She's about to doze off when she hears Bella's voice.

"I have the day after tomorrow off, but I'll never be able to wait that long."

Unlike Edward, Kate doesn't find the private moments of others entertaining. She grabs her iPod from her bedside table and pops its earbuds into place, content to know nothing more about Bella's new love interest than what she is willing to tell her.

It's just as well; Edward's response to Bella would seem bizarre out of context.

"Orgasms that don't result in severe injury are always worth the wait."

Then again, it probably seems bizarre regardless.

Bella flips her hair behind her shoulders, rolling her eyes. "Oh, please."

"Excuse me?"

"For all of your ability to read people..." She pauses, staring at him in disbelief. "I still can't believe Kate came home exactly when you said she would."

His shoulder twitches in a small shrug. "I told you I could hear her thoughts."

"She thinks in _Russian_."

"Which I speak."

"You _could_ be telling the truth. Then again, I might have mentioned her work schedule at some point." She pauses for a moment, thinking. "I honestly can't remember. Regardless, she must be exhausted; it isn't like her to come home go right to bed."

"She wanted to give us our privacy. In fact, she was wearing headphones so she wouldn't overhear anything...passionate."

"I have no way of fact checking until she wakes up, so if you're lying, you'll get away with it...for now, at least."

"Yes," he concedes. "Except I'm not lying."

"You can really read minds?"

"Yes."

She still doesn't believe him, so she teases him further.

"You speak Russian..."

"Yes."

"And you want to eat me."

"I don't _want_ to eat you—at least, not in the literal sense. However, that doesn't mean my resolve won't falter. It doesn't mean I_ won't _eat you. Sometimes an urge is so overwhelming, instinct takes over. Reason, free will, compassion—these are human traits that go against my nature. I can exhibit them, but only with great effort. The beast within me cares for nothing but his own pleasure, for satisfying his hunger."

His metaphor is the most original she's ever encountered, but she's heard all of this before.

"That's just macho bullshit invented as a justification for using girls for sex. It's insulting. Has it ever occurred to you that some women _want_ to be used?"

"Sexually, yes. But you have a lot you could lose–"

"Is this because I'm a virgin? You know, the possibility I could bleed doesn't bother me in the slightest. I'm female; I'm used to blood down there."

"You don't have to explain your reproductive system to me." He's uncomfortable with discussing her menses, but not for the reasons one might think. Though there's a hint of disgust in his voice, it's not directed toward her. He's disgusted with himself, because no matter how much he might wish otherwise, there are some things he can't have with her.

A baby is one of them.

"I'm quite familiar with how it all works."

She remembers what he said about his marriage, and feels like an ass. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to–"

"I'm not offended."

"Are you sure?" she asks.

"Yes." He senses she is still uneasy. "As you were saying?"

"Why do all guys think their dicks are lethal weapons?"

He throws his head back and laughs, inadvertently baring the part of his anatomy that_ is_ a lethal weapon. It isn't until his eyes meets hers and he realizes she's serious that he decides to give her a serious answer.

"There's a certain level of power a man enjoys when taking a women."

She raises a corner of her mouth suggestively. "Doesn't that depend on who's on top?"

"Not always. For example, if I were to occupy you, well..." He thinks of a way to phrase this delicately. Despite the fact she's reclining nude on her bed beside him, she's still an innocent, and he doesn't want to scare her. "Even if the woman is controlling the speed and depth of penetration, she's still allowing herself to be infiltrated. When the man ejaculates, she accepts his very essence into her body. His release is what conquers her, marking where he's been. Even after he withdraws, part of him remains in her body, staking his claim."

"Not if she makes him wear a condom."

"That's why we have Comstock Laws—or had, rather." He lets out a small laugh. "Humans are generally powerless, therefore they're hesitant to relinquish even a tiny bit. Our situation is more complicated than that. Because of my strength and my baser instincts, you'll have very little control over what happens in our bed."

She shakes her head, unable to believe it's taken her this long to see what's right in front of her.

"In other words, you like to dominate."

"It isn't a matter of enjoying it; it's not a lifestyle choice. It's part of what I am."

She's not sure she believes him, but she nods anyway. "Do you have any other fringe-festival worthy quirks I should know about?"

"Well, I'm different physiologically; that's why we have to be so careful."

"Every guy thinks his cock can do damage," she says, sighing. "The guy I dated in high school referred to his as his 'battering ram.' Right word, wrong tense. If anything, it was battered, but that's because the girl he dumped me for gave him genital warts."

"Karmically-transmitted diseases not withstanding, my ram can actually batter. It's harder, and it's strong enough to rip–"

"Isn't that the point? It's _supposed_ to get hard. It's supposed to be able to push through flesh. You make it sound like I'll die if you fuck me–"

"There _is_ that chance, and it wouldn't be the first time I've injured someone–"

"Let me guess—you're so enormous, you've done amateur porn. In fact, you're big even by dirty-movie standards, and your costars couldn't even take the head into their mouths fully without gagging, earning your dick the nickname Ralph."

"Your theory is amusing, but mostly incorrect."

"Yeah," she concedes. "You'd probably use a more old-fashioned name."

He doesn't let her know she's correct. It's not because he's being secretive. He just doesn't want her to know that in his internal monologue, he refers to his penis as Nebuchadnezzar. A girl of her generation simply wouldn't understand.

"Which part did I have right?" she asks.

He cocks his head and raises an eyebrow, and she thinks maybe she doesn't want to know.

"Never mind."

"Sweetheart, my fear of hurting you has nothing to do with the size of..." He pauses, pretending he was going to refer to it by its given name but then thought better of it. "...my prick."

"But does it have a name? I mean, considering your ridiculous fear that my defloration will somehow become snuff-film worthy, shouldn't I refer the murder weapon with a proper noun? Hmmm..." She rests the tip of her index finger on her lower lip, thinking. "I know! I'll call it Vlad the Impaler."

"Vlad the Impaler?" he asks in disbelief. "As in Dracula?"

"It's appropriate."

He looks at her in amazement for several moments. When he finds his voice, it's not much louder than a whisper.

"Indeed it is."

In that moment, he's the most relieved he's ever been while in her presence.

"So," she says, twirling a lock of her dark hair around her index finger. "Is the fact that I have to work later the only thing stopping you from taking me to see your house right now?"

He pauses for a moment. Now that she knows what he is, there are no props to be placed to maintain his human charade.

."Yes.".

"I'll call in sick."

"In that case, we'll leave as soon as you're ready."

As if sealing a promise, he wraps his fingers around her hand and brings her knuckles to his mouth. His lips pucker around each bony bump, one at a time. When he releases her hand, she throws her arms around his neck and kneels astride him.

Her breasts rub against his chest, as she lowers herself onto his lap, nestling his hardness between her thighs. Staring into his eyes, she rotates her hips slowly, dragging her mons across his penis through his trousers.

She's using her entire body to pleasure his. Her hands are in his hair massaging his scalp with her fingertips, her hardened nipples caress his chest, and her continues the slow movement of her hips.

He lets out a low moan but makes no move to stop her. She seems to be more intent on giving pleasure than taking it, and as long as it stays that way, he has no desire to taste the blood coursing through veins. Her virgin's blood is another matter altogether.

Pressing her cheek against his face, she gently sucks his earlobe into her mouth. The tip of her nose tickles his sideburns as she speaks.

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Oh, yes," he says.

"Good."

She hops from his lap and walks over to her dresser. She pulls a pair of panties from the top drawer and steps into them, as he stares at her dumbfounded.

"Now can you explain how you're in control of our sex life again?" she asks, reaching for her bra. "I don't think I understand."

As he laughs, it occurs to him that had he married a woman like Bella, he would have been happy. His life wouldn't have felt as if it was a prison sentence; he wouldn't have felt going to war was his only reprieve. He'd be dead now, yes, but at least he would have had a chance to live.

He rises to his feet and gestures for Bella to come to him.

"What?" she asks, standing in front of him.

"Thank you."

He takes her hands in his and kisses her forehead. He wants to do far more, to pick up where they left off, but for now he's content to spend the next two hours alone in his car with her, even if he does seriously doubt he'll be able to resist conquering her once they're safely sequestered in his house.

Upon the realization that he has no intention of trying, there's only one thing left to hope for. He closes his eyes and offers a silent prayer that Bella never becomes multi-orgasmic.


	11. Development

I don't own_ Twilight._

I can't take credit for Nebuchadnezzar; it's Victorian slang for penis.

_

* * *

_

_Chapter Ten_

_Development_

* * *

Edward's house isn't at all what she thought it would be, and though she admittedly has very little experience with bachelor pads, she can't imagine many of them look like this. He parks in the driveway not ten feet from the backdoor, but after throwing her overnight bag over his arm, Edward takes Bella's hand and leads her in the opposite direction.

The starless sky coupled with her lack of familiarity with her surroundings feed into her disorientation. She can't see an inch in front of her and has no idea why they are walking around the side of the house in the dark when they could have just gone in the back.

"Do you only have keys to the front?" she asks.

He laughs. "I admit I haven't gone about courting you the way I would have liked, but that makes you no less entitled to be treated properly. Backstairs are for whores, hired help, and other tawdry individuals who are never to be seen coming and going. You don't belong there."

His explanation is strange to her, but she doesn't give it a second thought—she's too focused on gripping his arm so she won't trip in the darkness. He fumbles with the lock on the double front doors, giving her a moment to observe his neighborhood. Dim streetlamps illuminate a quiet, tree-lined street that backs up to Long Island Sound. The homes are large and well-maintained with a sort of wholesomeness to them she can't quite explain. Despite his beauty and old-fashioned sensibilities, his presence here feels wrong.

Then she remembers he used to be married, and the idea that this man who embodies everything carnal would develop black-and-white pictures of sexual perversions in a house surrounded by a white-picket fence no longer seems strange to her. If anything, it endears him to her further.

He pushes the doors open and stands aside, gesturing to his home's interior with a graceful flourish of his hand.

"After you," he says.

With slight trepidation, she crosses the threshold. He closes the doors behind them, leaving them in complete darkness. She stands motionlessly, waiting for him to turn on a light.

Except he doesn't. Though she can't see much, she knows the ceiling is high, and the room is large. She doesn't see outlines of furniture she could walk into or trip over, but she remains frozen in place, nervous about the unknown.

"This is it," he says. "Would you like for me to give you a tour?"

"Doesn't the fact it's dark sort of defeat the purpose?"

"Right. Sorry." He flicks a switch, illuminating a pair of wall sconces flanking an Art-Nouveau hall tree. They cast a warm glow to the walls, making the space inviting despite it's formality.

Which is exactly how Bella would describe the entryway—formal. There's white wainscoting, rich parquet floors, and wallpaper so luxurious it looks as if it's made of silk. She takes a few steps toward a large staircase and sees there are arches on either side of her—one leading to a living room and one to a dining room.

Edward places her overnight bag on the hall tree and extends his hand to her.

"Let me show you around," he says, leading her into the living room. "The house was built as a starter home in 1905. My father purchased it when he decided he wanted a residence outside of the city, and I inherited it from him when he passed."

"A starter home?" she asks in disbelief.

"Yes. With the exception of a room meant to serve as a nursery, there's no consideration for a family."

This seems odd to her given the size of the home, but she doesn't comment on it. Instead, she nods, taking in her surroundings. The focal piece of the living room is a grand piano, and the seating is arranged accordingly. It's how she always pictured parlors while reading nineteenth-century novels.

"Where did you find all this stuff?"

"You mean the furniture? The older pieces belonged to my father; the rest of it was purchased when I married."

She nods, starting to understand. Given the amount of time he's spent around antiques, it makes sense that some of Edward's mannerisms are...well...antiquated.

"What's through there?" She points to the french doors on each side of the fireplace.

"An enclosed porch."

"And more antiques?"

"I don't think of them that way," he says, shrugging. "To me, it's just furniture. Come. I'll show you the rest of the house."

She follows him back into the foyer with her arms held stiffly at her sides. "I feel like I'm in a museum. I'm almost afraid to touch anything."

"I assure you, a hundred years ago, things were much more solidly made than they are now. Everything here is meant to be touched, to be used. It's foolish to assume fragility based solely on age and beauty."

"In other words, I shouldn't be afraid to break your furniture, and you shouldn't be afraid to break me. We both need to get over ourselves."

"The latter is far more likely."

"Whatever you say, Vlad."

"Yes, well. Antiques may be rare, but they can be replaced. You, on the other hand..."

He strokes her cheek with the back of his hand, and she leans into him, smiling devilishly.

"Why don't you show me your bedroom?"

She takes his hand and starts to lead him up the winding staircase, but he holds her in place.

"What?" she asks, turning to look at him.

He lets go of her hand and takes two steps backward, taking in the sight of her in his home. It's right and almost familiar, and all he can think is how much he wants to keep her here, how much he hopes he's able to resist eating her. The ensuing intensity in his gaze makes her shiver.

"I want you to feel as if you belong here," he says. "That you belong with me."

"I do."

"That you belong to me, that you know I could hurt you, but choose to give yourself to me anyway."

She doesn't recognize her voice as she answers. "I already have."

He scoops her into his arms, and with boyish enthusiasm, carries her upstairs.

**-o-**

Though Bella doesn't expect him to ravish her immediately, the idea that he would deposit her onto her feet in front of his bed then give her private time to freshen up certainly never occurs to her, either. He takes his leave to retrieve her bag, and she uses the time alone to see if his personal effects provide any insight into his psyche. In other words, she snoops. When she finds nothing but more antiques, she gives up. Standing at the foot of the bed, she runs her fingers along the coverlet absentmindedly.

The fabric is sumptuous, and she realizes Edward has the most finely appointed bedroom she's ever encountered. It's so beautiful that if she didn't know he'd been married, she'd think he was gay. All of a sudden, the thought of sleeping in the same space Edward shared with his wife makes her uncomfortable, and she feels as if she's borrowing another woman's things.

She's being ridiculous, and she knows it. After all, when Edward presses his lips to hers, she doesn't feel as if she's kissing another woman's husband. The contents of the house should be no different, but they are, and she doesn't understand why. She suspects Edward's wife chose the most of the home's furnishings, but that in and of itself isn't causing Bella's unease. Besides, Edward's wife didn't only select the majority of the contents of the house; the man of the house was also of her choosing.

"Is something troubling you?"

She turns to find him at her side. She wonders how long he's been standing there, and why she didn't notice his presence.

"You're going to make fun of me."

"Probably."

She looks back toward the bed with a blank stare, avoiding his question.

"Please tell me."

"I'm just feeling overwhelmed by your history."

Her admission does nothing to encourage him. After all, there's a still a great deal she doesn't know.

"How so?"

"You lived here with your wife..." She stops, hoping she won't need to elaborate.

"Yes."

"So she slept here, too. I know I'm being ridiculous. I don't even really know you, and you and I don't even have a relationship. I mean, on one level, I know why I came here. At the same time, I don't know why I came here. This isn't me."

He nods. "If it makes you feel better, this is out of character for me as well."

"You bring random women home with you all the time, get them naked, and take pictures while they jerk off. I think it's safe to assume casual sex isn't outside the realm of normalcy for you."

"That's where you're wrong. I bring them to my rentals; I've never brought anyone here. And while I'm not going to deny to that I take pleasure from them, I don't have relations with them. I haven't done that since I was married."

"What, did your divorce go through like six days ago?"

"I don't believe in divorce."

Bella covers her mouth as she realizes her gaffe. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize–"

"It's fine. Though I wished her no ill-will, we weren't exactly a love match."

"But you did make love."

"We fulfilled our marital obligations."

"How romantic."

"I assure you, it wasn't." He crosses the room and opens a door beside the armoire, then steps aside, gesturing to an adjoining bedroom. "Separate sleeping quarters."

There's a sadness to his voice that makes Bella regret mentioning her insignificant insecurities.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"Don't be. I fully expect you to ask questions; I _want_ you to ask questions. I want you to understand exactly what you're inviting into your life. That's why I brought you here—so you could make an informed decision."

She looks at him confusedly. "I thought I already decided. Besides, nothing you could say could make me change my mind."

"Nothing?" he asks.

"No."

"In that case, I see no reason not to do this properly. After all, I am a bit of a traditionalist." Taking her hand in his, he drops to one knee. "Would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?"

As if she's about to die, her mind plays a montage of her most significant memories from her early childhood to her grandmother's last living moments. Though only a split second passes, she relives each of them completely, until she sees her grandmother lying in a bed at Burdette Tomlin Memorial Hospital. She feels her grandmother's soft, wrinkled skin against her own as she tells her it's okay to let go, that she should walk toward the light. She hears herself whispering, "I love you, Nana. I'll see you when it's my time."

She could take this as a warning—that for all intents and purposes, she's seeing her grandmother again now. After all, the memory of her grandmother's passing is so real that she feels as if she's living it again—but she doesn't realize its significance. Instead, she sees a chance to live and to love, to not be alone anymore.

"I will."


	12. Exposure

I don't own _Twilight. _

Huge thanks to Emily for her valued input, and Kate for...well...everything.

You know this is for you.

* * *

**_Chapter Eleven  
_**

**_Exposure_**

* * *

Despite what his age and marital status would imply, Edward has never known a moment like this. He's never dropped to his knee before a girl he'd like to love and asked that she trust him with her life. Marriage, much like genuine affection, was something he believed his immortality rendered impossible. Yet here he is—kneeling on the soft wool of the Oriental rug in his bed chamber, holding the hand of a girl who possesses all the qualities he once believed he'd seek in a wife.

A girl who has just told him yes.

Unable to contain his excitement, Edward leaps to his feet and pulls Bella into his arms.

"I never thought this would happen," he murmurs into her hair. "I'd lost all hope."

She laughs. "You make it sound as if you've been waiting forever."

"I have been."

"We've only known each other a few days. We both probably should have our heads examined—you for asking and me for saying yes."

He cups her face in his hands and presses a chaste kiss to her lips. "Say it again."

"Yes."

He kisses her again, and pulls her body against his.

"I hope you'll forgive that my impetuousness got in the way of giving you a more romantic proposal."

"This was perfect. Besides, getting caught up in the moment is romantic. I've felt that way since I first met you."

"Romantic?"

"That, too, but it wasn't what I was talking about. I'm different when I'm with you. It's like the part of my brain that thinks and worries shuts down, and I can just feel."

"And what are you feeling now?"

"Excitement. Shock. Disbelief. It doesn't feel real to me."

"That's my fault. At the very least, I should have presented you with a ring."

Thinking this could be easily rectified, Edward takes a mental inventory of the jewelry tucked inside the safe, trying to decide which piece would be suitable to give to Bella. Even the rings that once belonged to his mother were at one point worn by his wife, and as much as he wants to seal his promise with some sort of token, passing them on to Bella feels wrong to him. He wants her to have something untethered to his past—something of value that will only ever be hers.

"We'll rectify that as soon as possible. In the interim..." He pauses, considering his options. His heart is as worthless as his broken pocket watch; neither are capable of ticking. He'd offer her his life, if only he were still in possession of it.

There's only one thing he has that she may want, and though he doesn't understand why she would ever choose it, he feels compelled to offer it regardless.

"Know that eternity is yours if you desire it."

In that moment, Bella realizes the enormity of what has just transpired—that she's agreed to marry a man she doesn't know and doesn't love simply because she's tired of being alone.

In letting her present circumstances alter her future, she's done everything her grandmother used to warn her against. Despite this, Bella thinks it will be all right. Though she may not know Edward, she wants to very much. She suspects once she does, loving him will be easy. Bella may not understand what compelled him to propose to her, but she doesn't regret accepting.

"How soon can we be married?"

"Someone must be anxious for the wedding night."

"As if we'll make it that long," she says, giggling.

"I wouldn't dream of taking your virtue before it was mine to take."

"I should have known this was coming," she says, rolling her eyes. "Your morals are as antiquated as your taste in furniture."

"I have no morals."

"So you claim. Your actions seem to indicate otherwise. Look, I get that you've had a sad past, and I'd never pressure you to tell me about it. If and when you decide you want to share, I'll listen. Whatever you've done is just that—it's something you've done. It's not who you are. You _are_ good. How you've treated me proves this."

"What if I'm unable to stop for you?"

"You mean the photography?"

"Yes."

She thinks about what he's saying. She knows what he does—that he takes pictures of people masturbating themselves to orgasm.

"Is this how you sustain yourself?"

"Not by taking the pictures. It's more what transpires afterward."

She doesn't respond; instead she takes a moment to process a part of who he is which she believes to be no more than his profession. Pornography is lucrative, and she knows all too well how hard it is to earn a living. It's not as if he participates in any way besides as an observer—or so he claims. Edward didn't judge her when she admitted she'd tried her hand at stripping. It feels hypocritical to judge him for making money from another aspect of the same industry. She knows all too well that sex sells—she wouldn't be able to pay her bills if it didn't. What she can't handle is the thought of him participating.

"And you really never join in?"

"No. Even if I weren't there to get a job a done, I'm a voyeur."

"Aren't all photographers?" she asks, trying to understand.

"To an extent, but I was a voyeur long before I started taking pictures."

"You like to watch?"

It's a statement that comes out as a question, so he answers.

"Yes. I always have."

He studies her face for any sign of reaction. He never tried to represent himself to her as human, so there was no moment of revelation where the choice to accept or deny him lay on her shoulders. Based on her willingness to be alone with him, he was confident she'd accept his proposal. She wouldn't risk her life so willingly if she didn't feel a pull to him as powerful as the one he felt to her. Unlike his immortality, his fetish is outside the realm of normalcy.

He'll understand if she considers it a deal-breaker even if it leaves him no choice but to eat her. His secret is only safe with her as long as she has vested interest in keeping it.

"Would you be opposed to letting me be there for a photo shoot? Just so I could see for myself."

"I'm not sure I could control myself with you there."

"It's that intense?"

"You have no idea. It presents a tactical problem at the moment, but it may not always be that way."

"But after–"

She means to say after they're married, but he interrupts before she can.

"Yes." Edward enjoys the humanity he feels in her presence far too much. Even though he believes she knows what he is, he doesn't want to hear her say the words. He fears the moment she does, the spell will be broken.

She sits on the edge of the bed, sighing. "I know we don't know each other well. Part of me feels like I should have my head examined for even being here. I mean, I've just agreed to marry you, and I don't even know your last name."

"It's Masen."

"Isabella Masen," she repeats, wanting to hear how her new name will sound. "I kind of like it." Then sensibility reclaims her. She runs a hand through her hair and groans, "Oh god!"

"What?" he asks.

"Kate said if I didn't get laid soon, I'd go crazy. I chalked it up to her flair for the dramatic, but I think she's right—I must be insane."

"Why do you say that?"

"I know nothing about you."

"You know what matters."

"Maybe," she concedes.

"You know what I am, and where I come from. That's the worst of it; everything else is just details."

"Lots and lots of details."

"I'll tell you whatever you'd like to know?"

"Why did you ask me to marry you?"

He doesn't have to think about his answer. "I love the way I feel when I'm with you, and I believe in time, I'll grow to love you. Is this strange to you?"

"A bit," she admits.

"Then why did you say yes?"

She sighs, struggling to find the words. "I'm so tired of being alone, of wasting my life inside a casino. It's like the rules of time and physics don't apply. I don't entirely understand it—how each shift lasts forever yet collectively I feel as if my life is getting away from me. Night, day—on the casino floor, it's all the same. There's no natural light or fresh air, so you never really know."

"Artificial light is safe."

"How so?" she asks.

"Unlike the sun, it lacks the power to burn."

"It's also mind-numbingly dull. Imagine living in a world without dawn or dusk—never seeing the sun rise over the ocean, never waking from its warmth on your skin. Or the beauty of a violet sky as day disappears? No beginning; no end. Just perpetual desperation."

He moves across the room and sits beside her. "I know it all too well."

"When I first starting working the casino floor, I'd pretend it was always twilight."

"Why twilight?"

"It used to be my favorite time. At the end of the day, it was easy to pretend the next one would be better. Until the sun comes up again and confirms nothing has changed, I can dream."

"And now?"

"Now I know better."

"I don't dream anymore, either." He lifts his shoulders in a small shrug. "I can't even sleep." He pushes a lock of hair from her shoulder and brushes his thumb across her cheek. "You don't have to go back there. Once we're married, what's mine is yours. You won't need the money. Besides, I'm not exactly fond of the idea of seedy casino patrons seeing my wife in her skivvies."

She laughs, too thrilled by the prospect of not working at the casino to realize how chauvinistic he sounds.

"I wear less on the beach."

"On the beach, it's appropriate. I can't give you the sun, but I can give you back your dreams."

"In other words, you're offering me the moon."

"Yes."

She rests her head on his shoulders and squeezes his hand. "The moon is far less common."

"But is it enough to compensate for the lack of sun?"

As is usually the case when she's in his presence, she answers on impulse.

"It's more than enough; it's everything."

**-o-0-o-**

An hour later, he crouches on the floor of the hallway, lowering his eye to the hole in the bathroom door. With a width equal to the diameter of a pencil eraser and half an inch in length, Edward doesn't doubt it was designed to accommodate old-fashioned perversions as efficiently as old-fashioned keys. What fleeting guilt he feels is eclipsed by his sense of entitlement, though not because the object of his gaze is his betrothed. Who she is isn't as relevant as who he is, and first and foremost, he is a voyeur. It's a compulsion he's had for as long as he can remember, and as much a part of his sexual identity as his mostly-hetero orientation. Watching is as crucial to his gratification as coming; furthermore, he doesn't believe he is capable of the latter without first partaking of the former. He _needs_ to come, so he has no choice but to watch. He strokes himself through his pants, unashamedly waiting for Bella to move back into view.

After all, when he was forthright about this part of himself, it didn't seem to bother her.

As Bella sits on the commode, she takes in her surroundings. She's not sure what bathrooms looked like in the early part of the twentieth century, but if she had to wager a guess, she imagines they looked like this one. Having completed her business, she looks to her side for toilet paper.

Of course, there isn't any.

"Edward?" she calls.

For the briefest of moments, he panics. He's not sure what he would do if Bella knew he was in the hall waiting to watch her bathe.

"Edward?" she repeats. "Can you hear me?"

Not wanting to her know what he was doing, he rises to his feet before answering her.

"Yes?"

"Don't open the door!" she yells, realizing his proximity. "I'm...indisposed."

"Are you hurt?"

"No, nothing like that. Sorry to worry you. I just can't find the toilet paper."

"If there is any, it would be in the closet. I'm sorry."

With her panties around her ankles and her dress around her waist, Bella hobbles across the room to the closet. There are stacks of neatly folded towels and various soaps and bath products. She lets out a small giggle.

"Is something funny?" he asks.

"Just my own stupidity. For a second there, I thought the contents of the closet would be old-school, and I'd be expected to wash with straight beef fat or something."

He laughs. "Even I've never done that."

"I don't think you have any. I mean, there's a roll of something in here, but the writing on the wrapper is really fancy, and it says it's medicated. I'm not sure what that means. Anyway, could you do me a favor and bring my purse? I have tissues in there."

He does as she asks, knocking softly on the bathroom door when he returns.

"I'm putting it right outside the door. Take your time and soak. Meanwhile, I'll run to the store for some provisions. I'm sorry I was so ill-prepared; I hate the thought of you experiencing a moment's discomfort in my home."

"Don't be silly. You've been living in Atlantic City, and we came here on a whim. Besides, I know how bachelors can be."

It's more of a vampire thing than a bachelor thing, but he doesn't point this out to her. If she's able to forget what he is, far be it from him to remind her.

* * *

**Thank you for your patience. I know it's been a while. The next chapter won't take as long; I promise.  
**


	13. Emulsion

I don't own _Twilight._

Thank you, Kate, for your incredible patience.

**WARNING:**

** The following contains a brief, non-descriptive reference to sexual assault. If you find this disturbing, message me and I will be happy to summarize the chapter for you. **

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**  
**Emulsion**

* * *

Edward wanders around the Super Stop 'N Shop, feeling completely out of his element. He's never bought groceries before—not even when he was human. Though he told Bella he'd return with the staples needed to stock the kitchen, he has no practical idea what this means. He places items in his cart based on the the thoughts of those around him, hoping Bella will be pleased with his effort despite his culinary ineptitude. There's a spring in his step as he makes his way to check-out counter; he doesn't think anything could eclipse the pure joy he feels in having finally someone to please.

As he stands in line, he thinks of Bella. By now, she's probably stripped out of her clothing and climbed into the large claw-foot tub. If she makes the water hot enough, her pale skin would be delightfully flushed. If only the cashier would work with a modicum of urgency, he could be home in time to catch a glimpse of her nude and possibly washing herself between her legs. He doesn't think he's ever been this thrilled by the prospect of peeping—not even when his father informed him his recently-orphaned cousin, Rosalie, would be coming to live with them.

How often he had watched Rosalie through the very same bathroom lock he'd used to catch watch Bella! Though the majority of his human experiences have faded from his memory, he recalls her porcelain skin, blond curls, flat chest, and inverted nipples with perfect clarity. There wasn't much to hold his interest, and by the time he left New York to attend college, he'd mastered the art of climbing trees to peep through second-floor windows. By the time he completed his degree and returned to his father's house, this skill was no longer needed. It didn't take long for him to discover the second cousin he recalled as pre-pubescent had grown into a wasp-waisted beauty. His pants tightened with the realization he could now satisfy his need for live, amateur pornography simply by walking down the hall.

Rosalie became an active (if unknowing) participant in Edward's sexual gratification and remained such until they were married. Though her full breasts and puffy areoles were now legally his to do with as he saw fit, he couldn't derive pleasure from gazing upon. Fetish notwithstanding, he was a gentleman—and a gentleman from his time would never subject his wife to such base desires. Their perfunctory marital relations were performed under the cloak of darkness. Foreplay consisted of raising her nightgown.

His marriage to Bella will be different. He desires her in ways he never wanted Rosalie. Though his need for Bella's blood factors factors into his lust, it isn't his only motivation. Bella's pure and virtuous, therefore she deserves his respect. He wants to have her in every way possible, but each time he's violated her privacy shame has consumed him. Edward may be a pervert, but he's not a hypocrite. If he were to arrive home before Bella is finished bathing, he doubts he'd be able to resist peering at her through the lock. If nothing else, there's a level of self-awareness that comes with his age; he's all too familiar with the limitations of his restraint.

Just as the customer before him in line completes her purchase, the cashier flicks a switch, causing the illuminated aisle number to flash.

"Sorry," she tells him. "I can ring you as soon as my supervisor changes the tape."

He smiles; he can't help but feel relieved. "I'm not in a hurry."

**-o-O-o-**

After putting the groceries away, Edward follows the sound of Bella's heartbeat to the living room. She's standing in front of the fireplace, focused on a photo on the mantle. For several moments, he watches her in silence, captivated by her loveliness. Her hair is wet, her skin is pink, and her pajamas are indecent. He wants to eat her.

Sensing his presence, she smiles at him over her shoulder. The intensity of his expression startles her, and when she turns back to the fireplace, her cheeks are ablaze. She's familiar enough with lust—she certainly sees enough of it at the casino—but somehow this is different.

"Is something wrong?" he asks, crossing the room to join her.

"No. It's just..." She sighs. "I'm still not used to the way you look at me."

He lifts her hair from her back and presses his lips to her neck. "With adoration?"

"That, too," she says, laughing. "But I was thinking hunger."

"I must admit, it's become a bit of an obsession."

"Eating me?"

"Drinking you." With his hands on her hips, he whispers into her ear, "It's all I think about...the essence of you rolling over my tongue."

He drags his fingertips across her pelvis. Her shorts are thin enough that he can feel the soft curls guarding her Venus mound through the fabric. Then her scent changes, and he doesn't have to read her mind to know she feels it, too.

"I wonder how it will feel—if its taste and thickness will change depending upon your arousal."

"Does that happen?" she asks. "Do..." She struggles with what to call it. The phrase _vaginal secretions_ sounds so clinical, and_ pussy juice_ is just obscene. "Does...it...change like that?"

"Oh, yes. You mean you've never..."

"Tasted myself? No."

Despite her humanity, he finds this odd. Has she never gotten a paper cut then placed the injured flesh inside her mouth?

"We'll have to remedy that."

Drenched and self-conscious, she changes the subject. "These old photos you have are fabulous. The longer I look at them, the more I think I would have loved to live back then."

Perplexed by her statement, he still his fingers. "Why?"

"I don't know. But I look at these pictures...there's a certain grace to them that doesn't exist anymore. A hundred years ago, no one agonized over the kind of bullshit we find stressfull."

"That's because they lacked the luxury of choice. There were expectations to be met, and consequences for failing to do so. We didn't concern ourselves with happiness. Duty was our primary motivation. Naturally, life wasn't particularly fulfilling."

"You may be right, but even so...I look at this woman..." She gestures to a tiny black-and-white portrait in an intricate metal frame. "And I want to _be_ her."

He doesn't hide the extent to which the mere suggestion disgusts him.

"What?" she asks.

"I never want you to be anyone but yourself."

"Now that I'm with you, I don't." Without taking her eyes off the photo, she leans back against his chest. "Still, I can't help but find her fascinating. I wonder what her name was."

"Rosalie."

"Rosalie," she repeats, sighing. "Everything about her is striking—her hair, her dress, even the way she's standing. She has a sort of ethereal beauty to her. I mean, I know very little about what day-to-day life was like a hundred years ago, but when I look at the expression on her face it doesn't seem as if she's unhappy."

He thinks back to when he took that picture. Though Edward wasn't aware of it at the time, his father had been forcing himself on Rosalie for months.

"I assure you, she was miserable. What little is left of her spirit in this photo was crushed the moment she found out she was with child."

Bella laughs. "Let me guess—this is your great-grandmother or something?"

"No," he says, shaking his head. "She's my wife."

She stares at the picture, amazed. When she and Kate went to Old Time Photos, the resulting portrait wasn't nearly this convincing.

* * *

**I'm not even going to pretend I don't suck. If you're still reading, thank you. I can't promise I won't continue to suck, but I won't drag teeth again.**

**Meanwhile, if you're looking for another fabulous vampfic, check out Poison in Me by Halawia. The link is in my favorites. **


	14. Inexplicable Orbs

Well, hello again.  
It's been a long time, no?

When we left off, Bella had agreed to marry Edward, despite his obsession with drinking her.

He believes she knows he's a vampire; in truth, she just thinks he's a tad eccentric and into kinky sex.

They're currently at Edward's house, which has been his primary domicile since he was human.

* * *

**for Katinki.**

**Thank you for your unbelievable patience. **

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

Inexplicable Orbs

* * *

After Edward tucks Bella into the crisp linen sheets of his antique sleigh bed, he kisses her forehead and takes his leave of her. She's disappointed to be sleeping alone, if not at all surprised. He did, after all, make known his intentions to wait until they're married. As much as she wants to be close to him, she doesn't attempt to change his mind. Mentally and emotionally exhausted, she knows she needs to rest. She also knows she needs to think.

He's a strange one—there's no doubt about that—and so much about him remains a mystery. Sometimes it seems as if he's keeping things from her, that what he's told her of his life barely scratches the surface of who he is. Then there's his coldness—both in affectation and body temperature. The former she can easily reason away as simply being the result of a formal upbringing; the latter is a bit more troubling. Though she's not familiar enough with circulatory disorders to have reason to believe he's being deliberately deceitful, something about it doesn't sit well with her. In the quiet blackness of the hundred-year-old room in which she lies, there are no distractions—nothing to prevent her from thinking the worst. It isn't long before her biggest fear—that she'll once again be completely alone—overwhelms her and her mind conjures up dozens of morbid scenarios of varying possibility.

None of them end well.

Needing reassurance, she kicks the sheets away from her body and bolts across the room. Her eyes close as she wraps her hand around the crystal doorknob, instinctively expecting light to wash over her the moment she pushes the door open. Except it doesn't. When she steps into the hall, it's every bit as dark as her bedroom.

She's about to call for Edward when she hears footsteps above. Her instinct is to follow them— though Edward has yet to show her the third floor, he's told her to consider this her home. Arms flailing in front of her, she grabs nothing but air until finally her hands find the hard wood of the banister. Gripping it as if it were a lifeline, she slowly makes her way upstairs.

"Is everything all right?"

Edward's pale skin has an almost translucent glow in the darkness and, for a moment, she thinks she's seen a ghost.

Her hands fly up to her face; she fills her lungs with air. "Oh my god."

He wraps his arms around her body. Her surroundings may be foreign to her, but the familiarity of his cold embrace gives her comfort.

The irony escapes her.

"I thought you were a ghost..." She laughs. Despite still having all the physical effects of being startled, she knows how ridiculous she sounds. "Because you know hundred-year-old homes filled with antiques always have at least one un-dead resident."

Smiling, he kisses the top of her head. She doesn't know how right she is.

"Let's get you back to bed," he says.

"No... please."

Noting the genuine panic in her voice, he takes a step back and studies her face.

"You've nothing to fear, my love."

"I won't be killed by a supernatural being while under your roof?"

Edward thinks of the soft heat of her body and how tenuous his control over his lust.

"I can't promise you that," he says. "Just that you won't feel any pain."

She laughs her way back to her room.

The next morning, Bella sleeps far later than usual. Though technically daylight, the sun is nowhere to be found. From a second-floor window, she watches Long Island Sound. The storm makes the water choppy, giving the illusion of waves. The weather was like this the day she scattered her grandmother's ashes in the Atlantic Ocean. If she stares long enough, she can almost see her grandmother in the tide.

_As long as I'm near the ocean, I'm not alone. _She leans against the wall and watches the waves.

She thinks she'll be safe here.

* * *

**I have the bulk of this written; chapters will go up regularly from here on out. **

**Thanks for staying with me. **


	15. Aberration

_This one's for Josh. _

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Aberration **

* * *

She hopes he's going to eat her.

It's been three days since they met, but it's all she can think about. His mouth on her pubis, licking, sucking, devouring. She needs it with every fiber of her being—and shouldn't she get something for coming to this creepy-as-fuck house?

In a peignoir she found in a closet on the second floor, she ascends the stairs to the third floor. She knows he's in his darkroom, that she's not supposed to disturb him there.

_But he wants this_, she rationalizes. _He won't mind an interruption._

Her hand closes around the knob of the bedroom by the stairs. His darkroom is tucked away in here, in what was once a walk-in linen closet. She scans the room for options, then reclines on a settee with her knees apart, assuming the position she once saw in a painting odalisque on exhibition at the Art Museum.

She remembers the day she saw that painting. Then, she was almost as turned on as she is now—when she walked past the DuChamp exhibit, some kid was groping his high-school English teacher. If either of them were at all worried about getting caught, it didn't show. She'd stood outside the room with the peepholes, slid her hand under the waistband of her skirt and into her panties, and stroked herself until she was on the verge of coming.

But she didn't come. There was no one there to give her permission.

Since then she's been a tightly wound ball of sexual frustration begging for release. Even now, she can't help but touch herself. Her fingers find her pink flesh, already juicy with her nectar. She rubs her easy button over and over, but she doesn't penetrate herself with her fingers. Oh no. She needs a man for that.

She thinks of Edward in his darkroom, developing black-and-white pictures of slutty women coming. She can almost hear his voice.

"Come," he's saying. "Come now!"

The fantasy is enough to push her over the edge. Her crisis is upon her, and when she comes, it rocks her to her very core. She's riding out the waves of her climax when he bursts through the door of his darkroom, pants around his ankles and a hand wrapped around Nebuchadnezzar.

"Eat me, Edward," she says. "Please."

With inhuman speed, his mouth is on her throat, teeth piercing her skin.

_Wait, did he mean that literally? Oh, fuck!_

As her blood runs over his tongue and down his throat, his cum shoots from throbbing member. He sucks her wound, swallowing every drop. When it ceases flowing, he licks her clean.

Even as he holds her lifeless body in his arms, he feels no remorse. She never should have come without permission.

"Happy April Fool's Day," he mutters, kissing her cooling forehead. "There will be a real chapter tomorrow."


	16. Diffuse Lighting

Thanks to those of you who appreciated my April Fool's joke. I had a lot of fun with it.

**Barring any more small kitchen fires, this will update every Monday until it's complete.**

* * *

thanks to detochkina and bookishqua.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Diffuse Lighting**

* * *

Bella doesn't hear Edward approach and he doesn't announce his presence—the last thing he wants is to miss out on a chance to watch her undetected. So he stares at her from behind as she stares out the window, standing close enough that when she turns to leave, she slams right into him.

"Ow, fuck!" She stumbles backwards, wondering why it feels as if she just walked into a wall.

"I'm sorry," he says. "You looked so lovely; I didn't want to disturb you. You aren't injured, are you? Do you think anything is broken?"

"No, but I'll be all kinds of purple tomorrow. Look, I don't know what you do to keep in shape, but I think you can afford to lay off it for a while. You already have abs of steel."

"Steel?" He thinks for a moment, then shrugs. "I've always thought they felt more like marble."

Laughing, she raises her hand, thinking she'll hit him playfully on the arm. Right before she touches him, she decides against it. Come tomorrow, she'll be sore enough as it is. Instead, she brushes her finger lightly against his wet hair.

"You went out in this weather?" she asks.

"I only go out in the daytime when it's storming. It's the only time sunlight is safe for me."

She gives him a knowing nod. Though she's not nearly as pale as he is, she still burns quite easily in the sun.

"When I was little," she says, "I used to love to go outside and play just as a storm was moving out—you know, just when the rain was starting to let up. I'd run around barefoot and jump in puddles. Did you ever do that?"

She looks at her betrothed. His white shirt is crisp, his dark trousers perfectly pressed, and there's enough of a shine to his shoes she can clearly make out her reflection in them.

"Never mind," she says. "It was a stupid question."

"Not at all. I know my childhood happened long before yours–"

"You're not that old," she says, rolling her eyes.

He thinks back to his time in Europe after the Great War. The vampire who changed him was nearly a thousand years old. Perhaps she has a point.

"No. I suppose in the grand scheme of things, I'm not. Age is somewhat relative. Anyway, I might have jumped in puddles. I don't remember my childhood well—just that everything was simpler back then."

She laughs. "Ain't that the truth."

"Come." He takes her hand in his and pulls her away from the window toward to the center of the room.

"What, are you taking me puddle-jumping?"

He pauses. "Would that please you?"

"It would," she says, smiling.

"Very well then. But there's something I'd like to do first." For the second time in as many days, he drops down to one knee.

"You already asked," she tells him. "I said yes, remember?"

"Indeed." He pulls a small black box from the pocket of his trousers. "But this makes it official." He flips open the box with his thumb, revealing a delicate platinum band encrusted with tiny diamonds which wrap around a small, round center stone like a ribbon.

She suspected this was coming. Edward is far too traditional not to present her with an engagement ring. But the vision before her—Edward on one knee presenting her with a token of eternity—takes her breath away.

Old-fashioned and understated; she's never seen anything like it. Bella doubts a more beautiful ring—or man—exists.

She thinks both and the ring are perfect, until she notices the name of the jeweler etched in gold in the box's satin lining. Though she knows nothing about the cost of diamonds, let alone the cost of diamonds purchased from a world-renowned Fifth Avenue jeweler, she knows it couldn't have been cheap, and that makes her uncomfortable.

"Please tell me this is a hand-me-down," she says.

"Of course not!" He looks offended. "I went into town this morning while you were sleeping. I wanted you to have something new, that's yours and yours alone."

She looks down at the ring; her happy sigh comes on its own.

"Is it not to your liking?" he asks.

"Are you kidding? I love it."

He reaches for her hand. "May I?"

"Please!" She bounces on her heels excitedly.

It isn't until he slides it onto her finger that it hits her: This is real. I'm actually going to marry a man I hardly know.

A voice in her head tells her she's out of her mind, but she's far too elated to give it any credence.

He kisses her hand then rises to his feet.

"If you'd do me the honor," he says, offering her his arm. "I believe there are puddles that require our attention."

Edward accompanies Bella on her sojourn, but when it comes time to actually jump in puddles, he doesn't participate. True to his nature, he knows he'll get far more pleasure watching her. She hops from puddle to puddle, her dress soaked through and her head thrown back in laughter. She's delightfully alive, and after a while, he starts to think he might be, too.

"What's the matter?" she asks, taunting him. "Doesn't the pretty boy like getting dirty?"

"Believe me. I have no problem being dirty."

She stops laughing.

When they return to the house, their clothes are soaked and her feet are muddy. Bella starts up the driveway, but Edward catches her hand.

"What did I tell you about the back door?" he asks. "It's not for you."

He leads her up porch steps and through the front door. Shivering, she heads for the staircase.

"And where do you think you're going?"

She freezes in place. "To get cleaned up."

"And drag water all over my house?"

"Wait a second." She turns slowly to face him. "I thought you said what's yours is mine."

"I did, indeed. Surely you wouldn't be so careless in your house."

"That's different," she says. "Then I'd be by myself and I could strip down by the door."

"In that case..." He smiles. "By all means, make yourself at home."

She may have only known him for three days, but she knows exactly what he's asking. She shouldn't be nervous. He's seen her before. Besides, she wants this; she wants him. Hell, she's going to marry him.

Ever so slowly, she reaches around and drags her zipper down her back. With her eyes glued to his, she pushes her straps over her shoulders and peels the wet cotton from her skin. It falls to the floor with a splat, and she stands before him in just her underwear.

"Those, too." He points to her panties. "We can't have you catching cold."

"I won't; they're no wetter than they've been–"

She stops when he reaches forward to touch her. He drags his fingertips from her upper arm to her collarbone, then down to her breast where he circles her nipple.

"As you were saying?" His hand moves lower, from her ribcage to the soft skin of her belly, until it eventually disappears under the soaked white cotton of her panties. "Ah, yes," he says, letting her wetness coat his fingers.

She doesn't tell him to stop, so he continues to tease her with a finger in her vestibule. Her breath quickens; he adds a second.

"You're a good girl," he whispers.

She tries to speak, but the word comes out sounding more like a moan. "You know I am."

"Good girls don't come without permission." He still doesn't trust himself around her orgasm.

"I...I won't." She isn't sure what she's asking if not for him to make her come, but she finds herself begging anyway. "Please...just...please."

Without moving his finger from its place inside her commodity, he walks her toward the staircase.

"I want to see it," he tells her.

His one hand remains on her Venus mound as the other tugs her panties over the curve of her hips and down her legs. Once he discards them, he nudges her to sit on a step.

"Show me." He withdraws his finger from her heat, spreading her juices around the soft skin of her inner thighs.

She's not sure what he's asking, just that she thinks she'll die if she doesn't give it him.

"I want to," she says. "I just don't know what–"

"Open your legs."

Her body complies on its own.

"Now open your cunt."

She spreads her labia with her left hand; the platinum band of her ring feels cool against her heated flesh.

As hard as Edward is, as much as he wants to claim her, there's one thing he wants more.

"Give me a moment," he says. "I'm going to get my camera."

Though yesterday she told him she wasn't ready for this, so much has changed since then. She's no longer worried they're moving too fast. After all, she knows she's different from the others.

* * *

**thank you for reading.**


	17. Viewfinder

**thanks to LJ Summers, Bookishqua, and detochkina. **

**And to wrong13 for her photography expertise; **

**this chapter would be fail without it.**

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

**Viewfinder**

* * *

The second Edward leaves, panic sets in. Bella isn't entirely sure how she got here—naked on the steps of Edward's house with her legs spread and her face on fire—just that when Edward was here, it felt right.

Now she just feels kind of slutty.

She wipes her fingers on her upper thigh as she brings her knees together and folds her arms across her breasts. With her eyes focused on the floor, she tries to ascertain if she's okay with what she _thinks_ is about to happen.

Losing her virginity is one thing; having it be a Kodak moment is something else entirely.

The snap of the shutter releasing makes her jump; she didn't hear him come back.

"Beautiful," he says, taking another picture.

She's not sure how he was able to get his camera so quickly, just that she's glad he did. There's something about the way Edward looks at her. Not the whole wanting-to-eat-her bit, though that's there, too. More that he makes her feel beautiful and a tenderness that makes her feel cherished, if not loved. For now, it's more than enough. She takes a deep breath and raises her eyes to his.

"Now where did we leave off?" His smile is diabolical.

With her gaze locked on his, she lets her knees fall open as her blush betrays her.

"Your cheeks are lovely." He takes another picture. "Now if you could put your hands back where they were..."

She closes her legs. "I don't want you to think of me the way you do..." She doesn't want to use a derogatory word but can't come up with anything better. "..._them_."

He thinks of the burn in his throat, of how much he wants to eat her. Were she one of _them_, he'd have read her thoughts and found some way to justify draining her. Were she one of _them_, she'd be dead by now.

"I don't want that either." The humanity he feels in her silent company is worth far more to him than a meal and an orgasm.

"But this..." She waggles her index finger between them. "...is what you do with them, right?"

"More or less." _Much, much less_.

Her face falls as her eyes once again find the floor. Right away, he realizes the problem. A lady likes to feel as if she's her sweetheart's one in a million, not his one in 2,784. What he needs is to do something with his betrothed he's never done with his dinner.

"I'm sorry." He places his camera on the step beside her. After pulling his shirt from the waistband of his trousers, he starts to unbutton it. "Sometimes I'm at a loss for what to do with you. What we have..." He shrugs—how to explain to a human how amazing it is to feel...well...human? "It's new for me, too."

She snorts. "Right."

"Look at me, Isabella."

She raises her eyes just in time to see him pull his belt from its loops. The sight of him barefoot and shirtless takes her breath away.

He _does_ look as if he were chiseled from marble. If not for the light spattering of hair disappearing into his pants, she'd think he was a statue. Then he smiles, and she remembers he's real.

He's_ real,_ and he's going to be hers.

He picks up his camera and sits beside her on the step, unzipping his trousers as a precaution. Were his arousal to tear his pants, Bella would likely fear his prick as much as Rosalie had. If there's one thing he wants from his second marriage, it's for his wife to love his cock.

He points to raised button on top of the camera. "This is the shutter release. After you press it, pull this lever here to advance the film. When you hear it click in place, you'll know you're ready to take another picture."

Her eyes widen as he places the camera in her hands. "You want me to take _your_ picture?"

Somehow the thought of being the photographer makes her even more nervous than she was at the prospect of being his model.

He shrugs, telling himself he doesn't want her to feel pressured. In reality, he detests having his photograph taken and finds the thought of posing nude utterly repugnant. But if it's what it takes to put his sweetheart at ease...

"If it would please you," he says.

She stands and faces him, but only with great trepidation. She doesn't think she can do him justice, but she raises the camera and peers through the viewfinder anyway.

He leans back onto his elbows. "I tell my models what to do."

"Okay," she says. "Say cheese."

He laughs. "To be fair, I've never told any of them _that_."

"Somehow I knew that." She thinks of what he asked of her—that she touch herself—and wishes she were brave enough to ask the same of him. Well, almost. If he were touching himself, she wouldn't dream of asking him not to come. "What_ do_ you want to do?"

Ever the voyeur, he sees a unique opportunity. "I want to watch you as you watch me."

Her breath catches in her throat; she nods.

"Have you ever seen a man?"

"Just in porn," she admits with a sheepish smile.

"But not in person?"

She shakes her head.

There's a voice in his head that tells him not to bare himself to her until she bears his name. Then again, some of what he wants to do to Bella are things to which a gentleman would never dream of subjecting his wife. He remembers his couplings with Rosalie. As a human, he went about his marital obligations as any proper gentleman would. He'd raise his nightshirt, then push Rosalie's chemise up around her hips. Though she was rarely wet, the precum trapped by his foreskin usually provided enough lubrication for him to get inside her, albeit with some difficulty. When it wasn't, he'd spit into his palm and rub it onto his prick. He got very little from it; she got even less. He never tried to give her pleasure, but it wasn't out of selfishness. In those days he, like most men, didn't know a woman could feel sexual arousal, let alone experience climax.

He wants his marriage to Bella to be different—provided he's able to resist the urge to eat her.

The air is heavy with her scent as he raises his hips from the steps. With his eyes locked on her face, he slides his trousers down his legs. As he kicks them off, his prick springs upward; Bella's jaw drops.

He's smiling when he opens his legs. She places the camera beside him on the step and kneels between his legs.

"Can I touch it?"

"Please," he whispers.

He leans back on his elbows as her hand closes around his shaft. As her thumb brushes over his foreskin to the head, the look on her face turns to confusion.

"It's so cold," she says.

Conversely, he feels nothing but her heat.

Wanting to distract her from his body temperature, he reaches for his camera. "May I?'

When she nods her assent, he releases the shutter. She tightens her hand around him and starts to pump.

"Yes," he says.

The shutter release snaps again.

"Just like that."

And again.

She leans forward and kisses it.

_Snap._

With her eyes trained on his, she wraps her lips around him. He's torn between losing himself in the heat of her mouth and capturing the moment for posterity.

_Snap. Snap. Snap._

Even vampires have their limitations.

He drops his camera.

* * *

**Sick family equals update fail. Schedules and preschoolers don't really agree.**

** Let's just say I'll update (at least) once each week until completion. **

**Thanks for reading. **


	18. Negative Positive Progress

**thanks to my betas:**

** bookishqua, lj summers, detochkina, and my husband **

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

**Negative-Positive Progress**

* * *

As much as Edward longs for his own time, he admits there are some things the past hundred years have improved: Cameras, darkroom equipment, and ladies' willingness to perform fellatio top this list. His shock at Bella's willingness to wrap her lips around his cock has little to do with his Victorian upbringing—he knows very well below jobs are no longer confined to below stairs. Still, he never thought it was an act he himself would experience. Though his meals dofrequently offer to service him—the men especially—not once has he entertained the possibility. The idea of mixing his own ejaculate with his food seemed so unsanitary and, until a few days ago, he believed humanity was only good for one thing.

He's still not sure what makes Bella different—perhaps her wide-eyed acceptance of him combined with her inherent goodness. Maybe it's just that she's here and she wants to—and it's been forever since he's allowed someone to touch him.

It's been forever since he's _wanted_ to be touched.

When she runs her tongue along the underside of his shaft, he can't contain his growl.

She looks up at him in surprise. "Is this okay?"

"It's divine."

She wraps her hand around the base of his penis and her lips around the head. What he can feel of her mouth is wet and hot and not nearly enough. With as much gentleness as he can manage, he threads his fingers through her hair and nudges her farther down onto him.

It's not the way she thought it would be. Even that part of him is cold, and though it seems strange to her, she doesn't dream of taking him out of her mouth to ask him about it. She's too fascinated by the sounds he's making and the way his thighs are trembling around her shoulders. He may be controlling the movements of her head, but she feels as if she's in charge—that his hard-as-stone body is putty in her hands. She relishes in her newfound power until he pushes her head a bit too forcefully and she starts to gag.

He lets go in a panic. "I haven't hurt you, have I?"

She shakes her head then sucks the tip of his penis back into her mouth.

He thinks he could spend eternity like this, but the familiar tightening in his testicles reminds him that he won't last forever.

_And unless she asks him to change her, neither will she. _

Her mortality is not exactly a revelation, but coupled with how close he just came to hurting her, it's sobering enough to kill the mood for him. No longer about to spend himself, he carefully nudges her head up from between his legs.

She knits her brow as her eyes meet his. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No."

"Then why..." She looks down at his penis; it's no longer fully erect. She's not sure what to think—she's always been told men love blow jobs. Unless... "I sucked at it, didn't I?"

"You sucked _on_ it," he says, laughing.

Her face heats up, and she can't bring herself to look at him. What's more, she doesn't _want_ him to look at her. Sighing, she folds her arms across her chest and lowers her face. "You know what I mean."

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize that was a serious question."

She keeps her eyes on the floor. "I thought you knew that I'd never done...well..._that_ before."

"Nor have I ever been on the receiving end."

She snorts. "Right."

"I wouldn't lie to you."

Her head shoots up, flinging tendrils of her still-soaked hair over her shoulders. She wants to believe him, but what he's saying makes no sense in the context of what she knows about him. She's about to call him on his bullshit, then thinks better of it—after all, she doesn't know all that much.

"And I'm supposed to believe that—never mind the fact you used to be _married_."

"Yes, but I am..." He looks at Bella. She's sitting fully naked in his foyer in the middle of the afternoon. He thinks back to last night and how he finger-fucked her on the Ferris wheel before he even made his intentions known. Referring to himself as a gentleman in the present tense feels more than a little dishonest, and he doesn't want to lie to her.

"...I _was_ a gentleman. As such, I wouldn't have dreamed of asking for something so perverse."

Not sure what else to say, he shrugs.

She studies his face through narrowed eyes. _He meets random women—men, too—and asks them back to his place so he can take pictures while they jerk off_, she thinks. _Now _that's_ perverse. A simple blow-job? _ She shakes her head.

He leans his elbows on the step behind him and sighs. "You don't believe me."

"I'm not an idiot."

"I don't recall implying you were—"

"If you expect me to believe you've never had someone go down on you..." Rolling her eyes, she folds her arms across her chest. "I mean, it's not even real sex."

"Prior to my marriage, I'd had a single encounter with a professional. My wife..."

His mind drifts to Rosalie—the beautiful, scarred girl to whom he'd given his name in order to legitimize the fruit of his father's uncontrollable lusts. When he came to her on their wedding night, she didn't deny him. Shaking and crying, she pulled her nightgown up to her waist and parted her legs.

"Try to be gentle," she'd said. "And if you can, be quick about it."

She didn't look at him, nor would she touch him. Even then, he didn't blame her—not after what she'd been through at the hands of his father.

One day, he'll tell Bella the circumstances surrounding his first marriage. But combined with everything else he's dumped on her in the past seventy-two hours, it seems like a bit much.

"My wife didn't like to be touched," he says, "and I didn't like to make her feel uncomfortable. Besides, before I met you, I only ever wanted to watch." He brushes his fingers against her cheeks. "I never dared to hope I might enjoy sexual gratification within marriage." Not wanting to elaborate, he changes the subject. "Speaking of marriage, if we apply for a license today, we can be married as soon as tomorrow—that is, unless you'd like like a longer engagement."

Bella doesn't have to think about it. "Tomorrow sounds perfect."

**-o-O-o-**

Life is easier when you have money. This has never been as evident to Bella as it is when, less than an hour after obtaining a marriage license, she answers the door to find a bridal boutique owner bearing assorted gowns for her to try on. Five minutes later, she's standing in what, despite Edward's insistence to the contrary, still seems like someone else's bedroom. Stripped down to her underwear, a complete stranger fastens her into a heavily boned longline bra.

"Of course, not all of the dresses I brought require one," the woman explains, "but the more traditional gowns look best with solid foundation garments. Once you get used to it, it won't be so uncomfortable."

Bella stifles a snort. "Oh, the bra isn't a problem—I wear a corset to work every day. It's that..." She wants to tell this woman everything: that she's marrying a man she's known all of four days, a man who already seems to understand her better than any of her friends do. That there's a voice inside her telling her she should be afraid of him, but all she really fears is that she won't be able to satisfy him sexually.

But she doesn't. Bella may not know the woman, but she knows what her reaction would be.

"Unless, of course, you wanted something more modern. I was guessing based on your obvious love of antiques, but I can go back to the shop—"

"I definitely want to go traditional." She thinks of Edward, of how he seems to fit right in with all of his antiques. Maybe she would, too, if she looked the part. Besides, something tells her his wedding suit will look like something straight out of _Boardwalk Empire__. _"Do you have anything that looks as if it could be an heirloom?"

"You mean Victorian-inspired?"

"No, more like early 1900s. My fiancé seems to like the styles from back then."

The woman pauses for a moment, then reaches for one of her garment bags. "I think I have just the thing."

Bella knows before she even tries it on. "That's the one."

* * *

**It's believed by some that the term "blow job" is a bastardization of the Victorian slang "below job". No one has been able to prove this one way or the other. Thanks for reading.**


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